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Lady Macbeth meets King Duncan. 





Novels from Shakespeare Series 




MACBETH 

TOLD BY 

A POPULAR NOVELIST 

WITH EIGHT ILLUSTRATIONS 
IN COLOR BY 

AVERIL BURLEIGH 




PHILADELPHIA 

THE JOHN C. WINSTON COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 





°*¥v 



~P"R 8878 

.M*Bs 



Copyright, 1914, by 
THE JOHN C. WINSTON CO 



SEP -5 1914 



)CI.A3S0260 



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PUBLISHERS' NOTE 

In this Series the plays of Shakespeare appear in an altogether 
new guise. 

In his Preface to the "Tales from Shakespeare," Charles Lamb 
confessed the omission of "many surprising events and turns of 
fortune, which for their infinite variety could not be contained in 
this little book, besides a world of sprightly and cheerful characters, 
the humour of which I was fearful of losing if I attempted to reduce 
the length of them." 

Here, however, in the "Novels from Shakespeare," the limit of 
length is removed and the plays appear as old time romances in 
which almost every character keeps his place, and every incident is 
retained, only the dramatic and poetic setting giving place to the 
devices of the novelist. 

It is hoped that by means of this Series the charm of the stories 
in Shakespeare's plays will be better appreciated than before, and 
that through this means a fresh inducement will be created to read 
the plays themselves and to see them upon the stage. 



(5) 



.Noblemen of Scotland 



CHARACTERS IN " MACBETH " 

Duncan King of Scotland 

Malcolm 1 TT . 

t. f His sons 

DONALBAIN J 

j. > Generals in the King's army 

Lady Macbeth 

Bethoc Stepdaughter of Macbeth 

Lulach Stepson of Macbeth 

Macduff 

Lennox 

Rosse 

Angus 

Mentieth 

Cathness 

Fleance Son of Banquo 

MINOR CHARACTERS 

Kenneth Swift-foot A messenger 

Seyton An officer attending Macbeth 

Siward Earl of Northumberland 

Young Siward His son 

Lady Macduff Wife of Macduff 

Indulph 

Odo } Her children 

Joan 
Ilda 

Graith J- Witches 

Maurne J 

Cedric A murderer 



(6) 



CONTENTS 

CHAPTER PAGE 

I. The Hero of Fife 11 

II. The Witches Prophesy 23 

III. Ambition Tempts 36 

IV. In the Council Chamber 46 

V. Lady Macbeth at Home 52 

VI. Revenge and Fate 64 

VII. An Old Emblem 73 

VIII. The Fateful Hour 78 

IX. A King's Death Knell 88 

X. Weakness and Strength 95 

XL Death Most Terrible 104 

XII. The Goal of Desire 119 

XIII. A Secret Meeting 127 

XIV. Bethoc Gives Warning 133 

XV. Ambition versus Friendship . . . . 141 

XVI. The Weight of a Crown 150 

XVII. Another Deed of Blood 159 

XVIII. A Strange Banquet 167 

XIX. Fleance Escapes ......... 179 

XX. A Message to England 190 

XXL Ambition Foiled 197 

(7) 



8 CONTENTS 

CHAPTER s PAGE 

XXII. "Macduff Must Die" 204 

XXIII. A Girl to the Rescue 213 

XXIV. The Might of Love 220 

XXV. The Thane of Fife 228 

XXVI. Macduff Escapes 235 

XXVII. A Dreary Vigil 241 

XXVIII. The Sisterhood of Evil 249 

XXIX. The Witches' Warnings 256 

XXX. Dame Marjory 267 

XXXI. A Strange Visitor 273 

XXXII. Lost Hopes 285 

XXXIII. Full Measure 297 

XXXIV. The Unhappy Queen 310 

XXXV. A Dizzy Summit 323 

XXXVI. Bethoc Going Bravely 332 

XXXVII. The Spy Discovered 339 

XXXVIII. In Birnam Wood 347 

XXXIX. Approaching Doom 353 

XL. In Thick of Battle 358 

XLI. Malcolm Canmore 365 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 

Lady Macbeth Meets King Duncan . . . .frontispiece 

"Lesser Than Macbeth and Greater" 

to face page 34 

"I See Thee Yet. . .in Form as Palpable as 
This Which Now I Draw 92 

"Glamis Hath Murdered Sleep, and There- 
fore Cawdor Shall Sleep no More" 100 

"Avaunt! and Quit My Sight" 176 

"All the Perfumes of Arabia Will Not 
Sweeten This Little Hand" 320 

"Lay on, Macduff" 364 

"Behold the Usurper's Head" 366 



(9) 



MACBETH 

CHAPTER I 

THE HERO OF FIFE 

THE outskirts of the forest reached at last! 
The man who staggered down the long slope 
of moorland towards the shelter of the trees 
drew a sobbing breath of relief . 

"On!" he muttered, as though encouraging himself. 
"On, if you would not be dubbed Kenneth Faint-heart 
instead of Kenneth Swift-foot." 

Rallying under his own lash the dauntless messenger 
reeled on — a sorry figure — bare-headed, with long, 
shaggy locks clotted with blood, his brogues slit and 
tattered, his Highland plaid and shirt in little better 
plight. 

Yet he bore himself gallantly, as one who scorns to 
fail of his trust; and there was kindling hope for him 
now the desolate moors were passed and he entered 
the cool shades of the forest. 

A mile or so more and he would be in sight of the 
little town of Forres, whose royal castle stood like some 
protective spirit on the eminence rising to the left of 
the burgh, girt about by the gently-flowing Mosset 
burn. The fainting soldier pictured these things as 
a dream of home to inspire him for a last sprint along 
(ID 



12 MACBETH 

winding glades. But alas! loss of blood, weakness and 
exhaustion overcame even that indomitable spirit, and, 
with a sobbing moan of protest against unkindly fate, 
he sank down upon the flower-strewn sward. Around 
him birds sang in the jubilee of happy springtide, life 
was buoyant, young and beautiful everywhere, so that 
the man lying there, marred, disheveled, battered by 
the fierce conflict with his enemies, became a blot, if 
not a shame, to Nature's peaceful picture. A rabbit 
crept from the undergrowth near, paused, then went 
scuttling back to its burrow. It was no human wise- 
acre to philosophize over fellowmen who chose to hack 
and break, mar and maim, what God had made after 
His own image. 

And Kenneth Swift-foot lay still, inert, having failed 
of his mission within a mile of his goal, whilst his lean, 
rugged face, pillowed amongst nodding blue-bells, 
streamed still with sweat and blood. 

Another note was struck as a horn sounded, sweet 
and musical, with a gay lilt of laughter in the blast 
which called to the enjoyment of a less arduous chase 
than that in which the unconscious sufferer had taken 
a part; whilst up a winding glade of the forest a young 
man came into sight. No spent or weary soldier this, 
but a slim and goodly youth, fair-haired, handsome, 
with command as well as laughter in his keen gray 
eyes and dominance in the set of his lips and square 
jaw. 

One born to rule — not serve — was the new-comer, 
and such was his birthright, since this was Malcolm, 
elder son of Duncan, King of Scotland, who awaited 
tidings of battle yonder at his Castle of Forres. Good 
and gracious Duncan, whose noble soul had made him 
the beloved ruler of his people. 



THE HERO OF FIFE 13 

And Malcolm was worthy of such a sire, at least 
so those who knew him said, for the boy is father to 
the man, and the boy prince had proven himself of a 
loyal, generous disposition, fearless and true, yet gay- 
hearted, too, with a zest for life, which is youth's 
privilege. 

He was on foot now, since in hunting the wild boar 
he had lamed his horse and sent the animal home by 
an attendant, whilst he lingered, summoning his younger 
brother, Donalbain, by the winding of his horn. But 
Donalbain did not reply — and Malcolm was about to 
repeat the call when he spied that which lay so limply 
beneath the oak tree. 

A man! A soldier! Why, this was the messenger 
they had been expecting so eagerly. The messenger 
from the army which the gallant Macbeth — Moormor 
of Ross — was leading against the rebel Macdonnald, 
and other of the king's enemies. 

Eagerly the young prince bent over the swooning 
man, fetched water from the burn near to revive him, 
and presently had the satisfaction of seeing the heavy 
lids unclose and a faint color creep back to the ghastly 
face. 

"Hist," quoth Malcolm, with that kindly solicitude 
which thought more of the sick man's need than his 
own desire for news. "You shall not rouse yourself 
to speak till I have sought succor and wine to revive 
you. I doubt not you have sped gallantly — but the 
tale will be better told for its keeping." 

Yet, even as the prince raised himself, glancing round 
whilst meditating as to how best bring the succor he 
spoke of, the sound of voices and cantering of horse- 
hoofs over the soft ground awoke fresh echoes around. 



14 MACBETH 

"The king," quoth Malcolm, and, at the words, 
noted how the flame of a loyal love kindled in the 
man's eyes as Kenneth the soldier dragged himself 
painfully to a sitting posture, echoing those two inspir- 
ing words, "The king." 

Malcolm smiled, well pleased, since his own love 
welcomed signs of devotion in others, and he was quick 
to cross the glade, crying to those who returned to 
the castle to await his news. 

Kenneth Swift-foot, drawing deep breaths in his 
fight for clearer consciousness, saw as in a dream the 
advance of those well-known figures, chiefest amongst 
them the stalwart king — a gallant figure in his gracious 
prime; a king indeed! noble and regal in his dignity 
of bearing. 

Around him were gathered a group of nobles, con- 
spicuous amongst them his two sons, Malcolm and 
Donalbain, with Lennox, suave and courtier-like, by 
the latter, whilst Duncan's hand rested on Malcolm's 
shoulder. Behind them came attendants, who held 
the steeds from which their riders had dismounted. 

The wounded soldier essayed to rise, but faintness 
held him back, whilst Duncan, bidding an attendant 
return to the castle for a fitter and physician, approached 
the stricken messenger's side. 

"You have news," quoth he, very kindly. "I give 
you praise, honest fellow, for the way you have car- 
ried it. Such wounds should have brought a less reso- 
lute man to a sick-bed long ere crossing the Hard Moor. 
Tell me then of the battle. Who stands for victory?" 

The man stared upwards, seeing through a mist of 
blood that quiet, noble countenance and mild blue 
eyes watching him in kingly approval, whilst he stam- 
mered forth his tale. 



THE HERO OF FIFE 15 

"Doubtfully it stood, my lord king. The rebel forces 
are strong. Macdonnald — foul traitor that he is — is 
well supplied with kernes and gallowglasses from the 
western isles. It seemed at first that we could not 
hope to stand against such a horde. But brave Mac- 
beth — oh, my liege — well he deserves that name — 
carved his way through the enemy's ranks, against 
overwhelming odds, and so fierce his zeal, so inspiring 
his example, that he was enabled to lead his men to 
conquest over that traitorous chief; nor did our leader 
rest till the rebel's head was fixed to warning against 
villainy upon the battlements of the town." 

Young Malcolm flung back his head, laughing aloud 
at such welcome tidings, but Duncan was silent, wait- 
ing for that further news which made complete victory 
for his brave generals doubtful. 

And the messenger rallied himself to give the tidings 
to the full, though, even as he spoke, the ring of kindly 
faces above him became blurred and indistinct, whilst 
other voices, such as cry in din of battle, thundered in 
his ears. 

"Fresh foes," he muttered. "Why, yes — one battle- 
cry hushed, another rang out. The King of Norway 
came swift upon the heels of his vanquished ally and 
began a fresh assault. We were weary — his men new 
to battle — a fearsome fight, lord king — a fearsome 
fight — its echoes ring again and again in my ears." 

Duncan frowned. 

"The King of Norway!" he cried. "Ah! and how 
fared it with our loyal captain then? How did Mac- 
beth and Banquo, my gallant generals, greet this grim 
foe from northern shores?" 

The man's smile was proud, though wan. 



16 MACBETH 

"They were no more dismayed, my liege/' he replied 
feebly, "than a lion might be at the sight of a hare, 
or an eagle faced by a sparrow. Swiftly they rushed 
out to greet this enemy, who came too confident for 
a victory I'm well assured he never gained. But I 
was sped hither ere the fight was o'er. Heaven grant 
the victory to the brave Macbeth — who fights for you, 
my king — and fights as few before him, though Banquo 
is second ... to no other. A gallant fight . . . and 
gallant leaders both." 

The man himself was a fighter to the last. Livid 
of face, his eyes yet gleamed over the memory of brave 
deeds, such as those of the fierce old days extolled on 
thrilling harp-strings and in wild songs of praise; but 
Nature asserted herself in the end and Kenneth Swift- 
foot sank down bleeding and swooning at the king's 
feet. 

But he had told his news, and those who heard 
looked each on each eager for confirmation of such a 
message. That stubborn fighting had been in progress 
all could guess — none better than young Malcolm him- 
self, since he had fought side by side with Macbeth 
during the earlier part of the rebellion of the chiefs, 
and had been taken prisoner, only escaping an ugly 
fate by the devotion of an attendant and the suscepti- 
bility of an enemy's daughter. He had returned to 
Forres to bring news to his father, who had detained 
him, unwilling again to allow the risking of a life so 
dear. 

After seeing to the disposal of Kenneth the soldier, 
the royal party proceeded towards the castle, eagerly 
discussing the situation and likely crushing of rebels. 

Gentle as he was by nature, Duncan was too wise a 



THE HERO OF FIFE 17 

king to show misplaced leniency to traitors — yet he 
grew grave as he thought of all this bitter fighting in 
a kingdom he would have knit with bonds of loving 
fellowship each with each. But for all his desire for 
peaceful prosperity he did not forget that the blood 
of the great Malcolm flowed in his veins. Malcolm, 
the prince who for so many years was known as the 
"Victorious King" and who drove the cruel Danes 
from the Scottish shores. And it may have been love 
and reverence for his mighty grandfather which gave 
an added tenderness to Duncan's regard for his own 
elder son. 

Young Malcolm should emulate his great ancestor, 
and the story of Scotland's glory ring through the 
world's length and breadth. 

Still, for himself, Duncan would have chosen the 
peace which blesses bounteous harvests and invites 
steady industry and more prosperous trading. But we 
may not choose our destinies, and Duncan had been 
conscious of an unwonted stirring of his pulses as he 
listened to this tale of heroism. Macbeth, Banquo — 
the whole army — should be welcomed and rewarded 
for their loyal devotion; and if he thought first of 
Macbeth it was because the powerful Moormor of Ross 
was a man knit in close bonds of love and relationship 
to himself. 

News flies at times — at others skulks behind hedges, 
creeping loiteringly on the way; but now fresh tidings 
trod on the very heels of that brought by Kenneth the 
soldier. An officer this time — in fact, no other than 
the loyal Rosse himself, whose love for the king had 
been proved so often. 

A red-faced, red-haired man, scarcely less battle- and 



18 MACBETH 

travel-stained than his predecessor, but unwounded and 
clear-brained to tell his tale. 

The king was about to be served at supper when he 
arrived, and the great hall formed a lively scene of 
bustle and merry confusion. 

The king, his family and nobles, sat at the central 
table, whilst his dependents had barely taken their 
places on the low, long benches forming a wider circle 
around, when the winding of a horn and shouts of the 
warden without told of the corning of a visitor. 

With busy thoughts for the armies engaged in crit- 
ical combat at no great distance the same cry rose to 
all lips. "News! News! A second messenger!" 
Whilst even the hungriest turned from pleasant survey- 
ing of heaped viands to gaze towards the man who 
stood on the threshold of the great doorway. 

"The worthy Thane of Rosse!" cried Malcolm the 
restless, and was on his feet as he pronounced the name. 
Lennox glanced back to a fellow courtier at his side. 
"He comes in haste," he whispered, "and in those 
eyes I read the hint of strange tidings. What shall 
we hear that brings such mingled emotions to stamp 
the teller's face?" 

Already Rosse had stridden forward and had sunk 
on one knee before Duncan, raising his right hand in 
salutation. 

"God save the king!" cried he in hoarse, cracked 
tones. Duncan leaned forward, peering through the 
gloom to read the tenor of the new-comer's tidings in 
his face. 

"Whence did you come, worthy Thane?" he asked, 
and all in that great hall held their breath to listen. 
A strange scene it was during a long moment of tension; 



THE HERO OF FIFE 19 

the vast hall, low-roofed, with great rafters of timber; 
^the narrow tables with their plentiful burden of coarsely- 
prepared food, the crowds of uncanny figures in loose 
shirts and kilted plaids, long-haired for the most part 
and shaggy bearded; the groups of boys and girls, 
whose duty it was to wait on the assembled company, 
some with flasks and pitchers in their hands, others 
holding lighted torches high, so that the ruddy flare 
fell on their own bonnie faces and fair hair, casting 
black shadows too, in the corners of the hall. 

But none moved, none spoke, as they listened for 
the answer to the king's question. 

Rosse had sprung to his feet and stood now facing 
Duncan with the eagerness of one who tells great news. 
"From Fife I come, great king," cried he, in those 
same husky tones. "Fife, where the Norwegian ban- 
ners flout the sky, and where Norway himself, with 
terrible numbers, assisted by that most disloyal traitor, 
the Thane of Cawdor, began a dismal conflict. Oh, 
my liege, I could hold you half the night through and 
then again till the pale dawn broke, telling you the 
story of the fight. How success wavered at first, flit- 
ting from one army to the other, so that woeful cries 
rang hollow, hollow down the deep valley, echoing 
above the mountain peaks. A fierce fight it was — 
and red the waters of the fair loch showed with traitor 
blood and true. But at the end victory was ours. 
Victory for Scotland! Victory for the king! Victory 
to brave Macbeth, the hero of the battle." 

The cries were echoed from a hundred throats. In 
the excitement of the moment men crowded over the 
benches, shouting, waving, gesticulating, whilst slender 
youths sprang even on the tables themselves, holding 



20 MACBETH 

the torches which flamed above their heads high as 
they cried hail to the king, hail to Scotland, hail to 
Macbeth, till the old hall rang with the shouts, and 
the peasants came forth from their huts down by the 
Mosset burn, to stare up towards the old fort which 
crowned the hill, and whisper to each other that the 
tidings from the north must be good and there was 
like to be wassailing on the morrow. 

And, in the castle itself, Duncan had called for the 
serving of liquor, since he had noted how Rosse's deep 
voice cracked in husky dryness, and soon great drink- 
ing vessels of horn and timber, brimming with wine 
and spirits, were carried round, and Rosse, with but 
half his tale told, took both handles of his wooden 
methir in his grasp and drained it in one quaffing. 

Then, as comrades laughed at such a feat, he resumed 
his speech as though he had taken but a breathing 
space. "King Sweno, Lord of Norway, was on his 
knees I trow when the battle was over; at our mercy 
was he, and all his pride hacked from him by our clay- 
mores. But the generals were resolute, and hailed 
him to Sir Colme's Inch, where, against his will, he was 
made to disburse ten thousand dollars to our general 
use before permission was granted him to bury his 
dead." 

Again the acclamations rose high. The peril which 
had threatened had passed indeed, and the stirring tale 
of Scotland's glory warmed every patriot's breast. 

But Duncan's head, bent awhile in deep thought, 
was raised now, and his voice took a stern note of com- 
mand: "The Thane of Cawdor was our faithful friend 
and vassal, now, however, proved unworthy of such 
titles. Yea, unworthy of life itself since his own deeds 



THE HERO OF FIFE 21 

cry l traitor' to a name once nobly held — aye! and to 
be as nobly held again. My lords, you shall carry 
my bidding with you this very night. The Thane of 
Cawdor has pronounced his own doom by meriting 
that death by which alone he expiates his fault. Death 
to the traitor, since mercy in such case breeds other 
traitors to authority. Yet, a more welcome task I 
give you, friends — for, as you go to bring just sentence 
to a false servant, you shall carry due reward for loyal 
devotion. The Thane of Cawdor shall live in brave 
Macbeth, whom ye shall hail by that title, a first fruits 
of well-earned honor for one whose honor is so high." 

He glanced to where Rosse had withdrawn a space to 
speak to his friend Angus, and the two nobles bowed low 
in acceptance of a mission to which they should ride 
presently when supper had been served. 

For the moment even Duncan himself seemed to lay 
aside his robes of majesty and grin like some beneficent 
parent in the rejoicing of his children, whilst high and 
loud rang the lilt of the harper's melody as he beguiled 
the feast with songs of Scotia's brave sons, who had 
fought and died for a well-loved country. 

And the name which rose again and again to the 
merry-makers' lips in shouts of acclaim was that of 
Macbeth — the brave and stalwart champion who had 
dragged the proud banners of Norway in the dust and 
trampled traitors to his king under his heel. 

Macbeth! Macbeth! 

Young Malcolm's voice rose gay and shrill with the 
rest as he thought not only of that stern and rugged chief, 
but of the latter's young stepdaughter, Bethoc, the 
child of Gilcomgain, Moormor of Moray, who had been 
treacherously assassinated by his own great-grand- 
father. 



22 MACBETH 

Bethoc — his white lily of the north, who smiled 
when her eyes met his — whilst the rosy flush crept up 
under that fair skin which had earned her his tender 
appellation. 

Bethoc! Ah, it was good to be young, good to feast, 
to laugh, to cry "hail" for victories won, aye, good 
to fight, to kill one's enemies, to win renown. Yet, 
best of all, to love when the sky of youth is one unclouded 
blue and the songbirds lilt to their mates in brae and 
forest. 



CHAPTER II 

THE WITCHES PROPHESY 

r\ESOLATION! 

IB It was the one word which could describe 
that wild tract of barren heath to westward 
of Forres known as the Hard Moor. 

Barren and desolate indeed, with gray rocks grouped 
in grim cairns over the sterile ground, where even the 
purple heather lost the richness of its hue and appeared 
brown and faded, whilst dark and wind-swept pine 
clumps took weird and twisted shapes as though they 
writhed in fear of that which brooded here — the intan- 
gible evil of the place that had given it an ill name as 
the abode of haunting spirits and things uncanny and 
fearful. 

How the wind wailed as it swept across the accursed 
waste! Wailing, wailing, like some lost spirit which 
wanders in hopeless search through the aeons of eternity. 

There was the oppressive sense of storm and tempest 
in the atmosphere, whilst through the gloom and 
drizzle of rain, a Kghtning flash leapt out, streaking 
the sky with lurid brilliance. Then the thunder 
crashed, echoed by the moaning cry of some frightened 
animal fleeing for shelter amongst the rocks or towards 
the dark fringe of woodland, pursued by the louder 
wailing of the hurricane which followed like some 
phantom host of avengers. 

Wailing, wailing, and then a cry — not of fear or 
pain this time, but pitched on a note of triumph. 

(23) 



24 MACBETH 

Yet such a triumph! That of devils, maybe; for 
there was an evil mocking in the sound, followed by 
laughter, which should have made a listener cold with 
fear. 

Gray shapes crept out of the mist of rain, hither, 
thither, blurred, almost unrecognizable at first for the 
figures of human beings; yet such they were. Figures 
of women wrapped in tattered cloaks and gowns; figures 
of women, two of them, as twisted and misshapen as 
the stems of the gnarled alders which hung over dreary 
morasses. But the faces — were they those of women 
too? 

A shuddering denial had been the gazer's reply at 
first, since so alien were those harsh and rugged features 
to the soft and tender lineaments of womanhood. 
Blear and cunning of eye were these gray-cloaked hags, 
with straggling locks, floating elf-like in the hurricane, 
and bearded chins at which claw-like hands scraped 
and scratched incessantly. 

Spirits of the gray rocks themselves they might have 
been, hideous in their inhumanity, yet stamped with 
the impress of an evil which inanimate Nature could 
not emulate. 

But, as they groped towards each other through the 
mist of rain and driving tempest, that weird, mocking 
laughter rang out in sheer, delighted deviltry, and a 
third shape, slimmer and more graceful than the others, 
glided from the blacker shadows of a ravine and joined 
them. A third to complete the trio of a dread sister- 
hood, whose fame was as a blighting ban throughout 
that gray land. 

But she who came last was the most terrible of the 
three. Her loose robe was open to show her bare 



THE WITCHES PROPHESY 25 

breast — to show, too, the red line where some strangling 
cord had fastened in deadly grip about her neck. She 
was young, with fair hair tossed like Medusa's snake- 
tresses about her shoulders, and her face was the more 
terrible by reason of a certain beauty, which had been 
marred into loathly horror by sin. All that was evil, 
vile and hateful, was stamped on the face of Ilda the 
witch, and her laughter was as the echo of fiends who 
rejoice in the damning of a human soul. 

Part and parcel of the raging storm were those three 
weird sisters who crouched together, regardless of the 
mist of rain, the moaning wind, the deep, sullen roar of 
distant thunder. 

"Where hast thou been, sister?" asked the elder of 
the trio, drawing back under shelter of the rocks, and 
huddling her wet cloak about her. 

The latest comer laughed again, and flung back her 
long tresses. "Killing swine," quoth she, and mimicked 
the death cries of, tortured beasts as if she would keep 
the sounds of pain in her ears. Graith turned from her 
impatiently, whilst Maurne, her companion, interrupted 
with the same question, "Sister, where thou?" she 
croaked, as she sucked at her toothless gums. 

The first speaker began to mumble, clawing at her 
chin, "A sailor's wife had chestnuts on her lap," she 
rasped, her red-rimmed eyes showing vicious in the half- 
light, "and munched, and munched, and munched. 
'Give me,' quoth I. l Awunt thee, witch, 1 the rump-fed 
ronyon cries." The hag stretched out a long, lean arm, 
pointing with a shaking finger of hate into the distance, 
whilst her voice rose shrill in denunciation. "Her hus- 
band's to Aleppo gone, master of the Tiger. But in a 
sieve I'll thither sail, and like a rat without a tail I'll 
do, I'll do— and I will do." 



26 MACBETH 

It was an echo of the storm growlings which gurgled 
in a scarcely human throat. But it was not the refusal 
of a handful of chestnuts which had provoked such 
fury in the breast of Gray Graith the witch, rather the 
curse of a name which she shunned even though welcom- 
ing the power her Satanic league gave. 

So pretty, plump Joan, the wife of Duncan the fisher, 
was to mourn a husband because of careless speech. 

Thus Graith vowed as she crouched there in a twilit 
corner of the storm-swept heath, whispering the tale of 
her unmerited vengeance to ears as keen for mischief 
as her own. 

"I'll give thee a wind/' cried Ilda, springing to her 
feet and flinging her arms wide as though welcoming to 
her sinful breast some demon of the tempest. 

"And I another," muttered Maurne, and hugged 
herself in satisfaction at thought of suffering — for others. 

"I myself have all the other," retorted Graith glee- 
fully, as, in dirge-like tones, she chanted her spell — a 
spell borne by the wailing breeze across the moors to the 
very keyhole of the door behind which Joan, the sailor's 
wife, ignorant of witch's malice, sang lullaby to the 
rosy-cheeked babe who lay so close to her mother-heart. 

"See," crooned Graith, her spell woven, her malice 
secure, "here I have a pilot's thumb, wrecked as he 
voyaged homewards. Will she suffer — she who called 
me witch? I think so. Will she weep — she who 
laughed, mocking poor Graith? I dream so — and the 
dream is good." 

"Hist," replied Ilda, who had crept to the top of the 
winding path, and now descended rapidly, hastening 
back towards her companions. "He for whom we wait 
approaches. He whom we have been bidden to claim 



THE WITCHES PROPHESY 27 

for our master. He comes — Macbeth — proud in the 
triumph of his victory as has been foretold. He comes — 
and Banquo with him. Ours be the task now to speed 
a halting fate which stands on the brink between good 
and evil. Great Macbeth — whose despair shall be our 
triumph — unless he be too truly great for our snare." 

Maurne laughed, gripping at the gray rock as she 
rose to her feet. 

"Too great?" she echoed. "Do any look too high 
to blind their eyes to the goal of ambition? Nay, nay. 
Weave we the spell closely enough, bait we the trap 
with a prize worth the winning and the sinning — and 
our master is obeyed — a man's doom sealed." 

"Come," shrieked Ilda, in an ecstasy of diabolical 
glee, "let us weave our spell, bait our trap, and — await 
the fool whose eyes are blind and ears deaf to all beyond 
the promise of ambition." 

She threw back her head so that the red line about her 
throat showed like a blood-stained ribbon in the fading 
light. • 

Distant and more distant came the roll of thunder, 
only an occasional flash of lightning lit up the barren 
scene, yet the storm did not seem to have cleared the 
atmosphere, which remained heavy and oppressive. 
From the far-off forest came the echoing cries of animals, 
hoarse with the note of fear. It was as if some brooding 
evil haunted that dread place which the presence of those 
three gray-clad figures made still more terrible. They 
were flitting forward, bat-like in the gathering dark- 
ness, till they paused close to where a blasted oak, 
stripped of all foliage, stretched bleached boughs up- 
wards towards the lurid skies. 

"The spell," gasped Ilda, breathless with laughter, 
and caught at a hand of each ill-omened sister. 



28 MACBETH 

Thus, fantastic, shapeless, swaying like mummies in 
the wind which still swept moaning over the moor, 
they encircled that stricken tree, beginning to dance, 
at first with slow, shuffling steps, then with gradually 
increasing speed, till their cloaks and loose, tattered 
garments whirled and fluttered madly in the wild orgy 
of the dance. Leaping, swaying, stooping, crouching, 
they danced in such giddy gyration as had seemed 
impossible for two such decrepit hags as Graith and 
Maurne to perform, whilst all sang in varying keys, 
which scraped and jangled in torturing discord, the 
following spell: 

The weird sisters, hand in hand, 
Posters of the sea and land, 
Thus do go about, about; 
Thrice to thine, and thrice to mine, 
And thrice again, to make up nine. 

Then, breaking suddenly apart, each fled shrieking 
towards the shelter of some gray boulder, whilst a great 
raven perched in a tree near uttered its plaintive croak 
in echo, and spread black wings to hover over the spot 
where evil lurked before sailing away in search of garbage 
to feast his foul appetite. Was it silence that followed? 
If so, a silence haunted by inarticulate sound, the sough- 
ing of the wind amongst the branches of the clump of 
dark pines to the westward, the monotonous drifting 
of rain against the breeze, the echoes of the storm and 
the shrill screech of a bird. 

Then, above and through all, the skirl of pipers play- 
ing wearily, wearily, yet with the tenacious courage of 
those who in worse case would call "victory" with 
their last breath. 



THE WITCHES PROPHESY 29 

See how they marched! these tattered, exhausted 
soldiers, limping, fainting, hungry and weary, yet mar- 
tialed onwards to a triumphant measure of music. 

Duncan's army — victorious over rebels, yet weak 
and weary in its need, marching over the desolate 
moors towards Forres. 

On they came, looming into sight only to disappear 
almost as soon in the mist, which crept higher and 
higher like some intangible, diaphanous death shroud. 

Thus passed the army which called Macbeth its 
leader and Duncan its king, marching to tell a tale of 
conquered foes and to hail their lord with the tidings 
that no rebel standard was set in rebellion in this his 
fair realm of Scotland. 

And, though hundreds of those ragged kernes passed 
within a stone's throw of gray rocks, none saw the 
ominous figures crouching there, till at last, when the 
army's remnant had vanished into the shrouding mists, 
came two who paused under the shelter of the pine 
trees crowning a higher slope of moorland, above where 
the witches hid. Both were clad as chieftains, in the 
national dress of those northern shores, with volumin- 
ous saffron shirts, reaching below the knees and girt 
with jeweled belts about the middle, forming a tunic, 
wide-sleeved for the greater convenience of throwing 
their darts, buskins of varied colors covered their legs, 
and were tied above the calf with striped garters, whilst 
brogues of deer skin were worn upon their feet. Over 
their tunics were flung wide mantles of fine wool, 
known as plaids, and very ingeniously woven with 
divers colors. Their hair was long and shaggy, that 
of the elder already tinged with gray. The younger 
was of medium height and great strength of build; 



30 MACBETH 

his hair was black, his eyes dark, bright and restless, 
the whole face that of a man who sees great possibilities 
in life and longs to grasp all, forgetful of the fact that 
in too greedy a claiming some portions of his desire 
must be lost to him. Yet, withal, it was the face of 
a leader, eager, dominant, in spite of a certain narrow- 
ness of the jaw and weakening of the chin — not notice- 
able now since both were covered by a short black 
beard. 

This was Macbeth, Moormor of Ross, over which 
province he ruled with an authority little less than 
regal. His companion and friend was his fellow gen- 
eral, the noble Banquo, who walked with the greater 
weariness by reason of a slight wound to his thigh. 

Pausing at the head of the pine-crowned knoll, Ban- 
quo scanned all that could be seen of that darkening, 
storm-swept moor. 

"How far is it to Forres?" he asked, with the wist- 
fulness of one who would fain be at his journey's end. 
But, before he could reply, shapes seemed to rise up 
out of the mists below. Shapes which at first seemed 
part of those gray mists themselves, but gradually 
resolved themselves into human figures, cloaked and 
garmented like women, yet showing faces which startled 
those intrepid beholders. 

"What?" muttered Banquo, staring down into those 
weird and terrible faces, whose eyes fastened so fiercely 
upon him and his companion. "What are these, Mac- 
beth? — so withered and so wild in their attire. Speak, 
if indeed you be inhabitants of the earth. Live you? 
or are you aught that man may question? See, they 
seem to understand, mark how each lays her finger 
to her lips. Women, are they? with beards upon their 



THE WITCHES PROPHESY 31 

chins, and twisted features which resemble those of 
corpses some time dead." 

"Speak, if you can," cried Macbeth, and there was 
more resolute command in his tones than in those of 
Banquo. "What are you?" 

Both men looked curiously down upon the hags, 
who had drawn close together on the lower slope of 
the moor beneath them, whilst with outstretched right 
arms raised aloft they seemed to point to their inter- 
locutors. 

It was a strange picture, and one to excite the super- 
stitious fancy of those whose nerves were highly strung 
after the exciting events of the past few days. The 
rebellion of such chieftains as Macdonnald and Cawdor, 
together with the invasion of the Norwegian king, had 
made the campaign exceptionally painful and difficult. 
There had been sleepless nights, anxious days, and 
tense suspense for the leaders of the king's army as 
well as the demand for personal bravery, whilst com- 
plete success and the knowledge of praise deserved 
caused a sub-delirium of restless excitement to engross 
them with proud and pleasant anticipation. 

And now, on the threshold of their triumph, whilst 
possessed of weary bodies and elated souls, they were 
met by these witches of the moors, whose evil fame 
was well known to them. 

Those were days when witchcraft was regarded as 
a very real though terrible profession, which to embrace 
was to be damned in the life to come for sake of the 
gift of certain Satanic powers in the present. Ghastly 
tales were told and believed even by the nobility and 
clergy of the service of initiation which abandoned 
creatures of both sexes were willing to perform for the 



32 MACBETH 

sake of those gifts which should make them so feared 
by their fellows. 

But, though the very name of witch or wizard was 
abhorrent to all upright folk, none doubted the validity 
of the Satanic compact or the power given to his dis- 
ciples. So, fear of what they could not understand 
kept people from denouncing these enemies to God 
and man, or meting out to them their well-deserved 
punishment. 

Thus, the trio of weird sisters haunted with impunity 
the neighborhoods to which a wandering fancy led them 
to perform their acts of vengeance and wanton mischief 
against those they hated or envied. 

And here they stood today on the hard moor, 
grouped as though to welcome the victors of a hard- 
won tight. 

No wonder that their very presence and attitude 
excited the imagination and curiosity of the two success- 
ful soldiers who watched them. 

Then, in swift answer to Macbeth's command, Graith 
cried aloud, her skinny arm upraised. 

"All hail, Macbeth! Hail to thee, Thane of Glamis!" 

"All hail, Macbeth!" shrilled Maurne, echoing her 
sister. "Hail to thee, Thane of Cawdor!" 

There was a moment's pause, and whilst Macbeth, 
with flushing cheeks and clenched hands, stood silent 
in amaze above, Ilda glided forward, more graceful, yet 
if possible more sinful than her companions, the dying 
light full on the marred beauty of her face, showing the 
mockery in her reckless eyes. 

"All hail, Macbeth!" cried she, "that shalt be king 
hereafter." 

Each word a stab deep into a man's soul! Each 



jTHE WITCHES PROPHESY 33 

word a poison seed to die and live in terrible growth! 
Each word a message from the nethermost hell! 

No wonder the color drained from bold Macbeth 's 
cheeks or that he stood as one entranced, staring hollow- 
eyed as at a vision — at first too startling to be believed, 
with something tragic, ominous, in the picture; yet, as 
the gaze became clearer, growing in beauty, allurement, 
wonder, so that the trance became deeper — more real — 
more tangible. 

"That shall be king hereafter" 

And the soil was prepared for the seed. 

Success already had engendered ambition, yet the 
listener's mind seemed to reel as he imagined heights 
to which he had never dreamed to aspire. Yet always 
before his eyes was the face of Ilda the witch, prophetic, 
magnetic, losing its hideous horror till the gazer saw it 
beautiful, desirable. The face of one who foretold a 
glorious future — herself an inspiration to greater deeds 
by which to win the goal she set. 

Deeds! Deeds! What deeds, what thoughts were 
these? The spell was broken by Banquo, who, forget- 
ful of weariness, rallied his friend in lighter tones, ques- 
tioning a seeming fear of such fair promises, whilst in 
his turn he looked towards the three who had drawn 
together again, barely distinguishable now in the dusk. 

"You see," cried he, with scarcely veiled eagerness, 
"how rapt my companion has become. And what won- 
der? Seeing how prodigal you are in promises of future 
hope and greatness. But to me you speak not. Yet 
I adjure you, if indeed you can look into the seeds of 
time and say which grain will grow and which will not 
— speak then to me, who neither begs nor fears your 
favors nor your hate." 



34 MACBETH 

It was the speech of a man who denied the anxiety 
he felt for an answer. 

Easily impressed by such prophetic words, the place, 
hour and occasion, all added to the sense that some 
close veil of the shrouded future was being raised and 
they invited to peer beyond; an invitation both were 
too absorbed in curiosity to refuse, in spite of the knowl- 
edge that the hands raising that dark screen of futurity 
were devil-damned. A brief pause succeeded Banquo's 
speech, the storm-laden atmosphere seemed to stifle the 
listeners' lungs as they waited . . . waited as for a 
pronouncing of doom. 

Then — "Hail!" cried Graith the elder, raising her lean 
arm again, whilst the red rims of her eyes fluttered as 
though she would hide the mockery of her gaze. 

"Hail!" cried each of her companions in turn. Again 
a pause. Had the weird sisters no prouder title for 
Banquo than the unsullied name he bore? 

But this time Graith spoke again. 

"Lesser than Macbeth," she mouthed, "and greater.'' 

"Not so happy — yet much happier," quoth Maurne. 

Ilda laughed shrilly, clapping her hands, then twining 
them in her long loose locks of hair. 

"Thou shalt get kings, though thou be none," 
shrieked she. "So all hail, Macbeth and Banquo!" 

Swaying she bowed before them, then turned to flit, 
like some phantom spirit, into the darkness. Nor were 
the others slow in following. Wraith-like they vanished 
as they had come — but over the darkening moor came 
drifting back the echo of their words, repeated in shrill, 
mocking tones. 

"All hail, Macbeth and Banquo . . . and Banquo 
. . . and Banquo." 




"Lesser than Macbeth and greater." 



THE WITCHES' PROPHESY 35 

It was as some croaking raven's cry, presaging doom, 
rather than a salutation to conquerors; and Banquo, 
listening, drew his mantle more closely round him, shud- 
dering as he heard the mocking lament. 

But Macbeth sprang forward as though he would 
have hastened" to descend the slope and race in swift 
pursuit of those strange messengers of fate. 

"Stay," he cried wildly, beckoning with outstretched 
hands. "Tell me more, imperfect speakers! By Sinel's 
death I know I am Thane of Glamis. But how of 
Cawdor? The Thane of Cawdor lives and prospers. 
Whilst ... to be king stands not within the prospect 
of belief — no more than to be Cawdor. Why, then, did 
you speak so? Whence did you derive such knowledge? 
— if it be knowledge — which I cannot believe it to be. 
And yet why should you stop our way upon this blasted 
heath? Why bring such tidings to stir our hearts with 
false hopes, wild desires impossible of fulfilment? 
Speak — I charge you." 

But in answer to that fierce appeal by which the 
speaker seemed to desire to tear aside the whole obscur- 
ing veil, raised for too brief a space by impious hands, 
came only the echo of a mocking laughter borne of the 
moaning wind, which carried also a lament as of many 
voices, rising and falling, rising and falling, in pitiful 
cadences of despair. 



CHAPTER III 

AMBITION TEMPTS 

FORRES in sight! Aye, silver-decked by sheen 
of moonlight, which showed the gray walls of 
the grim old fort, the green slopes of the hill- 
side from which the castle frowned, and the silvery 
waters of the Mosset burn which flowed so softly 
towards the black mass of surrounding forests. 
I "Who comes?" quoth Banquo, rousing from a deep 
reverie, in which phantoms of the future had risen 
before his dreaming eyes. "Can it be Rosse himself, 
with Angus by his side? Why, see, Macbeth, the 
king honors us by sending these noble chiefs to bid 
us welcome." 

Macbeth followed the direction of the other's gaze 
with moody, inscrutable eyes. He, too, had been lost 
in reverie and found it harder to shake his dream aside 
whilst greeting the friends who came in haste, gallant 
figures striding towards him with hands outstretched 
and laughter on their faces as became bearers and 
listeners of good news. 

It was Rosse, ever impetuous, who became spokesman 
almost before he came within earshot of the new-comers. 

"Welcome," he cried gaily. "Welcome, brave con- 
querors, from the king and all Scotland to such sons. 
And you, Macbeth, the king will not so much as tarry 
your coming before he would acquaint you of his pleas- 
ure. News of your success has preceded you to Forres, 

(36) 



AMBITION TEMPTS 37 

and all the castle rings with tales of a prowess which 
shall be voiced in song and told for generations yet 
to come upon the harp. Swift on the heels of every 
post another has reached us, and all with one tale to 
tell. The praises of great Macbeth, who fought the 
rebels and himself led men into the ranks of the Nor- 
wegian king, till they were mown and leveled like corn 
in harvest." 

"So we are sent," added Angus, as the fiery Rosse 
paused, breathless in his eulogies, "to give you thanks 
from our royal master and herald you to his presence." 

"And," quoth Rosse, "for an earnest of a greater 
honor, he bade me, from him, call you Thane of Caw- 
dor. So, hail by such title, most worthy Thane, since 
henceforth it is yours!" 

Macbeth did not reply. With his hand still locked 
in that of the speaker he looked across to where Ban- 
quo stood — and the eyes of the two men met. 

Banquo's gaze was inscrutable, but he laughed — 
without merriment. 

"What," quoth he, "can the devil speak true?" 

Macbeth turned impatiently back to Duncan's mes- 
senger. "The Thane of Cawdor lives," he said coldly. 
"Why do you dress me in borrowed robes?" 

The speech was impatient, the speaker's manner 
nervous, as though he were half afraid of some unspoken 
thought conceived in that instant in an over-busy brain. 
Had he again looked towards Banquo he would have 
seen a dawning pity on his friend's face. But Angus 
was brief with his explanation as the four chieftains 
climbed the hill towards the castle, where Duncan 
awaited the coming of his generals. 

"He who was Thane of Cawdor," said the younger 



38 MACBETH 

noble, "lives still, but under sentence of death. A 
sentence most just, as none can gainsay, though we 
know not the full story of his guilt. Yet he is traitor, 
proved and confessed, though all his treacherous deeds 
are not discovered. Some say he was in league with 
Sweno of Norway to overthrow Duncan and establish 
himself upon the throne; others declare that only in 
secret did he aid and reinforce the Norwegians. Be 
it as it may, he was minded to wreck his country by 
selling her to a foreigner, and thus confesses that he 
merits death." 

Traitor confessed! 

Macbeth paused near the summit of the hill, looking 
back over the forest, beauteous in its spring foliage 
seen with the sheen of moonlight upon it — and saw, 
too, in the distance the blacker outline of the moors, 
where night lay brooding in more peaceful hush than 
when he stood upon its storm-swept waste and heard 
the weird sisters hail him by strange titles. Beads of 
sweat broke upon the soldier's brow, he clutched des- 
perately at his plaid and drew gasping breaths as one 
wrestling with some fierce enemy. Then, seeing the 
astonished looks of his comrades, he broke into ner- 
vous laughter, striding forward towards the lowered 
drawbridge around which was gathered a group of 
soldiers. 

"Death, indeed," quoth he, "is fitting guerdon for 
a traitor's deeds — the only guerdon such can hope to 
win. So Cawdor the traitor dies?" 

"And lives," added Angus, "in a loyal and noble 
subject, whom the king waits to further honor with 
well-merited reward." 

Thus., with the echoes of high praise resounding on 



AMBITION TEMPTS 39 

all sides, came Macbeth and Banquo to Forres, yet 
to the former was given the greater glory, the more 
lavish promise of reward; whilst Banquo, though praised 
too, stood somewhat aside, wondering all the time as 
he watched his dear friend's varying humors, his sud- 
den fits of mirth, hilarious and wild, followed by a 
depression still more noticeable; saw, too, how this 
brilliant soldier had won the love and esteem of gracious 
Duncan, whilst Malcolm and Donalbain both vied in 
doing him honor and listening to his talk of valorous 
deeds, in which he did not spare to vaunt himself high. 

So Banquo watched, less restless than his friend, 
because his thoughts were less disturbed by phantoms 
of a future which tempted an ambitious soul, even 
whilst it shrank in abhorrence from them. 

Rosse and Angus were already on their way north- 
ward to see to the fulfilment of grim sentence on the 
traitorous Thane of Cawdor, and pending their return, 
Duncan remained at Forres, keeping both his victorious 
generals with him. Banquo had greeted his mother- 
less son, Fleance, at the castle, where, during the cam- 
paign, he had remained under charge of Lady Lennox; 
but Macbeth grew impatient, longing to be allowed to 
return to his own castle of Inverness and the wife he 
so passionately adored. But the king's pleasure had 
to be obeyed, so days dragged slowly by, crowded with 
business of state, whilst for Macbeth half the nights 
became profitless vigils when he would crouch on the 
narrow stone seat near the unglazed window of his 
room, resting his arms against the iron stanchion built 
into the wall as a protection against intruders. Seated 
thus he would gaze out upon the wide stretches of 
forest and moor, loch and distant heights, moody, 



40 MACBETH 

gloomy, preoccupied with the chaos of such thoughts 
as he could not name. He was watching in such 
fashion, with burning eyes that sought to scorch the 
veil of the future to see behind its folds, when the 
curtain before the door was raised and Banquo entered. 

The two friends had not spoken in private since their 
return to Forres, and Macbeth proffered no very hearty 
welcome as he turned from the high window, stepping 
back into the room. 

"You do not sleep?" questioned Banquo. "Why, 
so it is with me! Too many voices call to me at nights, 
though who or what they are I know not." 

He seated himself as he spoke, leaning back wearily, 
though from beneath shaggy brows he eyed the man 
opposite him curiously. 

"Voices," growled Macbeth. "What voices should 
there be — to call at night?" 

"Fve asked myself the question," smiled Banquo, 
"but received no answer. At times I say they are 
the cries of those who in some bloody battle have 
perished at my hand; at others I believe them to be 
no other than the mocking gibes of those midnight 
hags who met us on the Hard Moor as we journeyed 
hitherwards." 

Macbeth groaned, burying his face in his hands. 

"Would they had stayed," he muttered, "to have 
told us more. So little did they say — yet too much for 
peace. Did we taste some magic, fateful herb that 
night which crazed our reason, Banquo, or did those 
same weird sisters really stand and cry that . . . that 
your children shall be kings?" 

"As much and more they said," replied Banquo, 
keenly regarding his companion. "Was it not you 
who shall — according to their word — be 



AMBITION TEMPTS 41 

Macbeth looked up, and his dark eyes were wild. 

"Thane of Cawdor, too," he added hoarsely. , "Went 
it not so?" 

"Aye — to the same tune and words. *A strange 
prophecy, Macbeth.' * 

"Glamis," murmured Macbeth, speaking as one in 
a dream, who sees the panorama of a future not to be 
believed, "Thane of Cawdor — the greatest is behind." 
He stretched out his hand, clutching at Banquo's wrist. 
"Do you not hope your children shall be kings?" he 
asked, with a sudden fierceness, "when those who gave 
the Thane of Cawdor to me promised no less to me." 

Again their eyes met — but Banquo's grew very grave, 
compassionate, a warning in his glance and uttered 
words. 

"If we trusted too deeply to such rash promises," 
said he, "you would be looking for a crown, my friend, 
and to be king as well as Thane of Cawdor. But it is 
strange how, to work us harm, the instruments of dark- 
ness tell us truths — win us with honest trifles, to betray 
us in deepest consequences." 

"Why, that's true," replied Macbeth, flinging aside 
his mantle as though its folds suffocated him; "and I 
will put aside such thoughts as these. We should be 
gay, Banquo, in a present where success is ours." 

"In truth we should, cousin — and well content with 
the honor conferred on us." 

Macbeth laughed mockingly. "Content?" he asked. 
"I would that virtue were less stranger to me. There 
are unsealed heights as yet, Banquo, and if I may not 
be king, at least there are: fields of fair renown before 
us both." 

"And in them serve a noble master," added Banquo. 



42 MACBETH 

"For myself I ask no better than to be vassal and 
subject to the kindly Duncan, or, in turn, to young 
Malcolm, who is a goodly prince of pleasant parts." 

"Malcolm," echoed Macbeth, "why! 'Tis but a boy 
— a gallant youth, yet I for one should have no wish 
to put my hand in his or swear fealty to a beardless 
lad." 

"Your thoughts travel post," smiled Banquo, "since 
Duncan lives, and by his hale strength and health 
promises us many years in which to serve." 

"To serve," repeated Macbeth, "to serve." 

His tones savored of little relish for such words, 
and there was a proud arrogance on his features which 
might have marked the rebel will had Banquo noticed 
it, but the latter had risen and was moving towards the 
door. With his hand on the curtain he turned, looking 
back to see Macbeth huddled low in his seat, one hand 
supporting his head. 

"Sleep well, my friend," said he, "and if we dream 
let not ambition paint in the colors with too bold a 
hand. We do well to serve, are happiest thus, since 
so our lot is appointed us. So let us thank Heaven 
for success in service and follow no false lures to our 
destruction. God rest you well." 

The door was closed. Macbeth listening, heard the 
sound of steps dying away down the stone stairs. He 
was alone in a room lighted only by the moon. A 
room, stone-walled and bare, with but the one high 
window through which the white beams poured their 
rays to gently caress the rough wooden carving of the 
crucifix fastened on the wall. 

Ambition ! Was it possible when gazing at the Divine 
Figure of Humility? Crown of thorns, cross of suffer- 



AMBITION TEMPTS 43 

ing, the glory of self-abnegation — all were there. But 
Macbeth did not so much as glance towards the cruci- 
fix, nor did he pray. He was thinking instead of the 
woman who was even now awaiting his home-coming 
at Inverness. He pictured her, stately, proud, beauti- 
ful — a queen uncrowned. Royal in her carriage, her 
nature, by birthright, too. A queen ... his 
queen . . . Scotland's queen. ... He started at 
that last whisper, clutching at his tunic, tearing it 
open so that his chest lay bare. 

Scotland's queen! He could see her face as he 
hailed her by such a title. The flash in those gray 
eyes, the superb pride with which her dainty head 
would be poised, the slender arch of the white neck, 
the dewy red lips, parted in a smile of perfect content. 
A queen ... his queen . . . Scotland's queen! 

How the devil tempted him! And he had no desire 
to pray. Yet he feared, hearing the melancholy howl 
of a wolf in the forest near, shuddering, too, as he 
recalled the story of how nearly seventy years before 
the unfortunate King Duffus had been murdered in 
this very room. 

Murdered! How redly the word shone before his 
eyes. A king murdered! Oh, foul and terrible deed. 
Could there be forgiveness for such in Heaven? Nay! 
that were a crime to damn a soul to hell. To hell! — 
he could imagine the torture of that punishment to- 
night. Hell! 

Again the wolf howled and a night-bird cried, yet the 
moon shone peacefully down into a room where a king 
of Scotland had been murdered and where now a man 
crouched, afraid of himself and his own thoughts, which 
as yet he had not dared to breathe or formulate into 
definite ideas. 



44 MACBETH 

What had Banquo said? Had he not spoken of 
content? Macbeth laughed scornfully as once more 
he thought of a woman, proud and erect, with flaming 
auburn tresses alone to crown a head which would so 
bravely wear a crown of gold. 

With trembling fingers he drew a scroll of parch- 
ment towards him. He must write to his wife before 
he sought his couch. 

Only that evening had Duncan told him of his 
gracious intention to visit his castle of Inverness for 
a night on his way further north. 

Macbeth had received the intelligence with all loyal 
protestations of satisfaction at the honor done him; 
but, as his royal master spoke the words, fear had 
again clamored at his heart. Fear of himself, fear of 
this opportunity to . . . to . . . 

He never got farther than that in his meditations, 
yet at the moment he could have cried aloud to the 
king not to have traveled by way of Inverness lest 
evil might befall him. But such wild words could not 
be spoken with Malcolm and the many courtiers — 
amongst them Banquo himself — standing by the king's 
side, and now, as he laboriously indited that letter to 
his wife, he ceased to regret that he had been mute. 

The king would come to Inverness. Well! What of 
that? He would come — and go — whilst he, Moormor 
of Ross, Thane of Cawdor, would be no nearer the 
throne of Scotland than before. How could he hope 
to be? 

Slowly — more slowly — he wrote. He was too busy 
to answer that last question, yet it haunted him. How 
could he hope to be? How could he hope to be? Why, 
at that precise moment, did he think of King Duffus, 
dying here in this very room by a murderer's dagger? 



AMBITION TEMPTS 45 

Perspiration broke over the writer's brow and rolled 
down his face. It was of his wife he thought now. 
A queen — his queen — Scotland's queen. And ambition, 
eagle-eyed, vaunting, clamorous, stood at his elbow, 
weaving rare pictures of a future, to reach which lay 
the way of a dark and terrible valley, into whose depths 
Macbeth dared not gaze — he only looked beyond, so 
that the writing of his letter became easier, his heart 
beat faster, more triumphantly. 

"AH hail, Macbeth! that shall be king hereafter." 
There was nothing sinister tonight in the echo of 
the salutation with which Ilda the witch had greeted 
him as he returned with Banquo from the vanquish- 
ing of the Norwegian hosts — and traitors to King 
Duncan. 



CHAPTER IV 

IN THE COUNCIL CHAMBER 

IT was the noonday sun which streamed into the 
gloomy council chamber of the castle of Forres, 
and Prince Malcolm, watching its bright rays, 
grew regretful for greenwood shade and the excitement 
of the chase. He was still too young and irresponsible 
to have cultivated any taste for the affairs of state, 
though in fighting, hunting, sports of all kind, and 
every healthy recreation he was an enthusiast. 

To him Macbeth was a hero indeed, by whose side 
he hoped to fight in the next campaign against Scot- 
land's enemies, whilst in the meantime he recalled with 
pleasant thrills of awakening passion that the favored 
general was stepfather to Bethoc, whom he might hope 
to see soon when Duncan and his court visited Inver- 
ness. That hope was food enough for a happy day- 
dream which his father's voice broke upon. 

"Is execution done upon Cawdor?" asked the king. 
"Are not those in commission returned yet?" 

Malcolm turned from watching a hawk poised motion- 
less in mid-air ready for swooping on some helpless 
victim, and crossed towards the table where his father 
sat with Lennox and other councilors, whilst Prince 
Donalbain, a lad of some twenty summers, leaned against 
the high, carved back of his chair. 

"My liege," quoth Malcolm, bowing with ready 
grace, "they are not yet come back. But I have spoken 

(46) 



IN THE COUNCIL CHAMBER 47 

with one who saw Cawdor die, and he told me that 
very frankly the Thane confessed his treasons, showed 
deep and sincere repentance, and humbly implored 
Your Highness' forgiveness. Indeed, nothing in his 
life became him like the leaving it; he died as one 
who studied in his death to throw away the dearest 
thing he owed as if it were a careless trifle." 

The king sighed wearily. This business of treachery 
and stern requital — necessary though the latter was — : 
had grieved him bitterly, so that he was aged by ten 
years in as many months. Now for a space he hid 
his face in his mantle, as one who grieves for a friend 
rather than rejoices in the death of an enemy. 

"He was one on whom I built an absolute trust," 
he murmured, and lapsing once more into silence, 
prayed, no doubt for the peace of a soul which had 
not sinned beyond the hope of purgatory's cleansing 
flames. 

But young Donalbain, straying from his father's 
side, cried the news of a return looked for in so much 
impatience, and less than half an hour later Rosse and 
Angus entered the room, dusty with travel and grave- 
faced, as became the bearers of such solemn tidings. 
One Thane of Cawdor had paid his debt of treachery 
by death — another now awaited fuller reward as the 
king's payment for loyal devotion. Strange fates, 
interwoven about a single name, stranger destinies 
weighing in the balances of time! 

Macbeth stood before his noble sovereign — a subject 
worthy of favor, yet with the subtle poison of an evil 
woman's speech working like leaven in a heart and 
brain created for noble purpose. 

Did Banquo guess at least part of such strife seething 



48 MACBETH 

in an ambitious soul? If so, he put such surmises aside 
as unworthy. Macbeth was too great, too noble, too 
loyal for such a shadow to be cast upon his name. 

The king was speaking, having resolutely put aside 
his grief for the fate of an unworthy friend in the 
honoring of a more deserving one. 

The prowess of Macbeth had restored peace to a 
war-racked kingdom — and the king's thanks were 
eloquent if simple. 

Duncan's hand rested affectionately on the chief- 
tain's shoulder as he spoke of gratitude. 

"Would you had less deserved/' said he, "that the 
proportion both of thanks and payment might have 
been mine. All I have left to say, more is your due 
than I can hope to pay." 

Macbeth raised his head, Duncan's gracious condescen- 
sion and love had so moved the more generous impulses 
of his nature that for the time the evil demons of imagi- 
nation disturbing his peace of mind were driven head- 
long and he answered with a sincerity none could 
mistake. 

"In performing service and loyalty for such a master, 
I pay myself, my liege," he said. "Your Highness' 
part is to receive our duties. And our duties are to 
your throne and state, children and servants. We only 
do what we should in endeavoring to maintain your 
safety and honor." 

Duncan's heart glowed with pleasure at hearing such 
an avowal. Here was devotion, simple, manly, obviously 
sincere. Here was a man whom he might trust 
indeed. One who would be as a tower of strength in 
the upholding of his throne against scheming enemies, 
a friend and subject who could not be too highly hon- 
ored by the king who owed him so much. 



IN THE COUNCIL CHAMBER 49 

Tears of gratitude stood in the good king's eyes as 
he listened to Macbeth's speech, and with a heart 
stirred by such promises he turned to his other general: 

"Noble Banquo," he said, holding out his hand, and 
speaking with much emotion, "you have no less deserved 
than your partner in this successful enterprise, as all 
shall know; good and loyal friend, let me hold you to 
my heart, sure that a kindred spirit knits us each 
to each." 

He embraced Banquo affectionately, whilst the latter, 
being freed presently from that kindly hold, fell on one 
knee, kissing the edge of the king's robe. 

"The harvest of our love is your own, my liege," 
he whispered, and felt his heart swell in longing to 
perform fresh service to repay such gratitude. 

But the king had returned to his seat at the head of 
the council chamber, where soon all were conferring on 
those matters of statecraft requiring instant attention 
after the late breaking of peace. 

It was Duncan's purpose to establish more authority 
upon his elder son Malcolm, since he felt that the lad 
could not too early learn the meaning of the heavy 
responsibilities which, as his father's heir, must one 
day be his. To be king of Scotland in those far-off 
days of the eleventh century meant no empty title and 
honor. 

The lawless spirit of the Highlanders, the independ- 
ence of the tribes, the frequent depredations of the 
Norwegians and Danes, kept the monarch in a con- 
stant turmoil of business, besides calling for the need 
of infinite tact in the treatment of the various moor- 
mors or governors of the "great tribes" of Scotland, 
whose rule over their own particular provinces was 



50 MACBETH 

almost as absolute as that of a king, each "great tribe'' 
being sub-divided again into lesser tribes governed by 
its "toshach" or chieftain. 

For six years Duncan had reigned wisely and well, 
but, with the wisdom of one who looks with calm 
judgment to the future well-being of those he loves, 
he saw that young Malcolm's character would be 
strengthened and deepened by responsibility, and now 
announced to the assembled chiefs that he intended 
to bestow on him the title of Prince of Cumberland, 
and the post of his lieutenant in government. 

All — saving one — heard the announcement with ap- 
proval, for Malcolm had won the well-deserved favor 
of his father's friends and adherents, who were now 
loud in their acclaim, so that the silence of Macbeth 
passed unnoticed. 

The Thane of Cawdor had indeed fallen into a reverie, 
in which it is to be feared he again indulged in those 
dangerous dreams of ambition which he had made only 
spasmodic efforts to crush. It was Duncan's voice 
speaking his name which recalled him to the fact that 
he was still seated in the council chamber of the king. 

What was it the latter said? There would now be 
no delay in setting out for Inverness on the way south 
for the ceremony of Prince Malcolm's investiture? 

To Inverness! How his pulses galloped at the thought 
as if lashed to some wild race by a fugitive whisper. 
A devil's whisper. . . . 

Macbeth rose from his seat, pale but calm, masking 
the nervous emotion that consumed him. 

"In that case, my liege," he said, controlling his 
voice with an effort, "I must humbly crave permission 
to take my leave, so that, playing the part of welcome 
courtier, I gladden my wife's ears with the tale of such 



IN THE COUNCIL CHAMBER 51 

honor put upon my house, myself and all within its 
walls." 

Duncan smiled his permission, well pleased at such 
a promised hospitality. 

He was glad to take this opportunity of showering 
his favors on so peerless a kinsman, and prophesied a 
pleasant resting place for himself and suite at the castle 
of Inverness, whose lord and lady would be so well 
prepared to welcome him. 

But Banquo, returning alone to his lodging and find- 
ing Fleance already asleep upon his narrow bed, bent 
over the boy with tender love, yet sighed as he looked 
into the fair, flushed face. 

"Thou shall get kings," he murmured to himself. 
"Poor Fleance! Would your father's ambition for you 
cast your feet amongst those quagmires and pitfalls 
where Macbeth already wanders? Shall I stir that 
damned spark in your young breast which beats already 
in loyalty and love to Duncan and his house? Why! 
I would not do this thing for all the wealth and honor 
of the world — least of all at the prophecy of those foul, 
abandoned hags whom I would fain condemn to the 
hangman or the stake. May flames shrivel those with- 
ered throats of sin ere I am beguiled by them from my 
loyalty. Aye — and may the Thane of Cawdor pray 
the same prayer, lest he lives to weep the snare which 
a devil from hell conceived and set by the help of 
filthy tools." 

The boy stirred in his sleep, murmuring his father's 
name. With an overwhelming sense of tenderness 
and foreboding that father gathered the little lad into 
his arms and pressed him to his breast, as though poor 
impotent love could protect and shield him from all 
future and imagined ill. 



CHAPTER V 

LADY MACBETH AT HOME 

A CHILD'S laugh rang out, high and clear, from 
the castle turrets, followed by the sound of 
scampering feet, as a boy of about eight years 
of age burst into the room where a young girl sat at 
her broidery frame. 

"A messenger," cried the child. "See, Bethoc — 
one who rides wearily. Come and see if you can tell 
who he is?" 

And, catching at his sister's hand, he dragged her 
impatiently towards the high window, from which he 
himself could not look out. 

The broidery frame fell clattering on to the ground 
and carefully selected skeins of fine wool were scattered 
in hopeless confusion. But in the meantime, Bethoc, 
scarcely less interested than her small brother, was 
craning her neck to catch a glimpse of the horseman, 
who had just appeared in sight, riding over the crest 
of an opposite hill from that on which the castle of 
Inverness stood.* 

"It is Dugald," said the girl, a flush rising to her 
cheeks. "I think he must bear a message from our 
lord." 

And she turned back, as though hesitating whether 

* This was not the Great Stone Castle built in 1059 by Malcolm 
Canmore, but one of earlier date standing on a hill known as the 
"Crown" to the east of the town. 

(52) 



LADY MACBETH AT HOME 53 

to carry such tidings to her mother, who was resting 
in an adjoining room. 

The two children — for Bethoc was scarcely more, 
though accounting herself at the age of sixteen a woman 
grown — were the step-son and daughter of the Moor- 
mor of Ross and Moray. Their mother — now Lady 
Macbeth — was Gruoch, granddaughter of Kenneth IV, 
surnamed the Grim, who was slain righting against 
King Malcolm, grandsire of Duncan, the present sov- 
ereign. Nor was this the only injury which the lady 
could show against the reigning house of Scotland. 
As a young girl she had loved and wed with Gilcomgain, 
at that time Moormor of Moray, by whom she had two 
children — the eldest a girl, Bethoc — the younger her 
son, Lulach. Gilcomgain had been burned to death 
in his castle some six years previously, together with 
fifty of his friends, by order of the same King Malcolm 
who had killed her grandfather, and further incurred 
her vengeance by assassinating her favorite brother. 

After her first husband's death, almost simultaneous 
with that of his destroyer, Gruoch had wandered from 
castle to castle seeking asylum for herself and young 
children. It was at one of these castles that Macbeth 
had first met her, instantly fallen in love with her beauty 
and fascination, and married her. 

His devotion since had been unfaltering, in spite of 
the disappointment at having no heir. He showed, 
however, a father's kindness to his step-children, and 
still hoped that one day the saints would hear his 
prayer and bestow on him a child of his own. 

Lady Macbeth herself was a woman of indomitable 
courage, powerful personality and possessed of that 
wonderful fascination which chains men's hearts and 



54 MACBETH 

enslaves their will far above mere beauty. Yet she 
was beautiful too, this woman with the blood of kings 
flowing in her veins and an insatiable desire for ven- 
geance in her heart. 

In a chamber luxuriously furnished according to the 
ideas of those rough times, she was resting extended 
on a couch near the window, when Lulach burst in upon 
her with all the lack of ceremony which a spoilt child 
may practice with impunity. 

"It is Dugall, lady mother," he cried, in a shrill 
treble. "Bethoc says that he must have ridden from 
Forres with news of battle." 

A slight frown contracted his mother's forehead, 
though she pulled the boy to her not ungently. 

"What does Bethoc know of it?" she asked. "But 
you shall run presently and bid Ronald not delay to 
let me know the news when it arrives." 

"He was crossing the valley when Bethoc looked 
from the window," said Lulach. "He will soon be here, 
and oh! I do hope he will have news of battle to tell 
me. I love to hear of the slaying and the righting 
and how the brave kernes and gallowglasses smite down 
the foreigners. When I am old enough I, too, shall 
fight for the king, lady mother." 

Lady Macbeth did not answer at once, but lay, one 
arm loosely about the boy's waist, regarding him with 
half -closed eyes which hid a fierce fire of love and hate. 

Love for the child? Yes! she bestowed that upon 
this little lad— the love she had given to his father, the 
husband of her youth, the gallant, handsome, reckless 
Gilcomgain, whom she had so passionately adored that 
the thought of it shook her soul even now. Yes . . . 
even now. And yet Lulach was her own living image, 



LADY MACBETH AT HOME 55 

ruddy-haired, fair-skinned, gray-eyed. It was Bethoc 
who was like her father, raven-tressed, with blue eyes 
which held the trick of laughter and to whom tragedy 
seemed an alien thing. Bethoc! The very name 
brought hardness to her mother's eyes, since by some 
crank of a warped nature she had no mother-love to 
give her only daughter. 

Was there reason for such antagonism? None what- 
ever! But the fact was indisputable — and Bethoc 
knew it, wept over it — but withal, her futile, childish 
efforts could not alter it. 

Was it a spice of unnamed jealousy which strength- 
ened a wayward irritation against one who should have 
been altogether lovable? 

Lady Macbeth did not deign to ask herself such a 
question. Bethoc was a personality without interest 
to her — so she told herself. But Lulach was her dead 
husband's son, her darling, her treasure, the joy of her 
fierce heart. Yet, hearing him speak now of service 
to one she regarded as an enemy, she silenced him with 
unusual curtness. 

"You shall fight," quoth she, "but not for one whose 
grandsire slew your own. There will be nobler deeds 
of prowess for Gilcomgain's son. A father's death to 
avenge — a mother's wrongs to right. But, tush! I 
speak in folly to a babe. Run, Lulach, and see that 
yon loitering messenger speeds.- I would have news." 

The boy, half frightened, ran away blithely enough, 
shouting to Bethoc to come down to the hall with him. 
His mother heard the call and frowned again as she 
slowly rose from her couch so that she too might look 
from the window across the flat and marshy plains, 
watered by the river Ness, which flowed in several 



56 MACBETH 

channels towards the narrow sea visible beyond. The 
cool air of a spring afternoon blew through the unglazed 
opening to fan her face, and she was glad of the refresh- 
ing breeze. 

Lulach's sudden entry and unfortunate speech had 
roused in his mother a train of thought which plunged 
her into the lurid places of the past so that her fierce 
heart beat yet more fiercely in thinking of the future. 
The awful days surrounding and immediately following 
the murder of her young husband, and her own narrow 
escape with Bethoc and the infant Lulach, had changed 
the sweetness of her woman's nature into bitterest gall. 
Ah, God! how she had suffered. How she had cursed 
those who had made her suffer — and yet how impotent 
those curses had been. 

Malcolm the king had died in his bed in the odor 
of sanctity, shrived and assoilzied by mitred bishop and 
holy sacraments, whilst those whom Gruoch, wife of 
Gilcomgain, loved, had writhed in pains which were 
bitter foretaste of purgatory, forbidden by bodily pangs 
to think of their immortal souls. 

So the story of a black past stood out before Gruoch, 
now wife of the great Macbeth, as she sat in her castle 
of Inverness and watched the red flare of sunset tinge- 
ing distant waves with a crimson glory. 

The past! The past! Why did it come so vividly 
before her this evening? Why did dead ghosts arise 
to pace slowly before her mental vision? Ghosts, all 
bloody and terrible, called forth by the careless speech 
of the child whom of all living beings she loved the best. 

Would Lulach fight under the banners of cruel Mal- 
colm's grandson? Nay! That, she vowed, he should 
not do, and caught at her throat with trembling fingers 



IM 



LADY MACBETH AT HOME 57 

whilst she swore it, as though to stifle back the sobs 
which were the outcome of her woman's weakness and 
therefore disdained. The sound of an opening door 
and the entrance of a page announcing the messenger 
roused her from so grim a train of thoughts. 

Ah! — the messenger who had ridden, as Lulach said, 
from Forres. 

The messenger from the husband who adored her, 
and to whom she vowed — much gratitude. 

Gratitude! When Gruoch told herself where her 
duty to her present lord lay she would laugh — amused 
as though by some clownish folly. 

Yet Macbeth loved her, and if she had no love to 
give him in return for all the lavish gifts his love be- 
stowed, at least he never guessed it. Whilst, undeterred 
by the weakness gendered by too much affection, the 
Moormor's wife had never lost an opportunity of inspir- 
ing her husband with such ambitions as she fostered 
in her own passionate heart. 

Was she not granddaughter of Kenneth the Grim? 
And, though she had not born a son to Macbeth, she 
would often look tenderly at her own little Lulach and 
dream of the goal of an ambition which Macbeth would 
help her to gain. 

A man, sweating and faded by hard riding, had 
entered the room and was bowing low before his mis- 
tress. He still panted for breath and in silence handed 
the packet which Macbeth had found it so difficult to 
indite. 

The lady took the scroll, fingering the seals with 
careless ringers as she glanced at the messenger. 

Wherefore had there been such need of haste? 

"What are your tidings?" she demanded curtly. 



58 MACBETH 

Dugald glanced up furtively; few were they in that 
castle but feared this lady. 

"The king comes here tomorrow," he muttered, 
clutching at the curtain to steady himself, for he was 
faint with the stress of speedy travel. 

His mistress started violently, as though the speaker 
had struck her a sudden blow. 

The king? Her enemy? 

"Thou'rt mad to say it," she whispered, as she broke 
the seals of the packet she held now in a firmer grip. 
"Is not thy master with him? Had the king been 
coming I should have been warned before to make 
preparation." 

"So please you," replied Dugald humbly, "it is true. 
Our Thane is coming — I do precede him by an hour at 
most. And, hard on the heels of my master the king 
himself." 

"Great news indeed," cried his mistress. "Go, you 
shall be tended well, fellow, for having used such neces- 
sary speed. And, having learned my lord's mind in 
this letter, I will be instant in obeying his instructions. 
Go, get you to your quarters, eat and drink, later I 
may desire to question with you further." 

The man stumbled forth, glad enough of the per- 
mission to depart, knowing that he would be well served 
by those who were already greedy for his news, of 
which he would make much, as is the custom of those 
who desire to have comrades hang eagerly on the 
weight of every uttered word. 

But Lady Macbeth, alone once more in her chamber, 
sat staring down at the unopened scroll, whilst a chaos 
of unruly thoughts made turmoil in her brain.. 

Duncan coming hither! How would she greet one 
who, for his grandsire's sins, she regarded as her enemy? 



LADY MACBETH AT HOME 59 

Hatred, indignation, resentment surged within her 
breast. How the flames had roared above the castle 
walls, behind which her beloved husband stood pre- 
pared to perish. She could hear the awful crackle 
of that dread holocaust even now, feel the agony which 
had wrung her heart, as with her babe in her arms she 
had crouched amongst the undergrowth of the forest 
near and prayed to Heaven to avenge her. But Mal- 
colm the victorious was dead. It was only his grand- 
son who lived. Would she preserve an undeserved 
hate for one who so honored her present lord? 

Why came the king to Inverness?* Surely, it must 
be accounted an honor. Should she mask her feelings 
and so help her husband up another step of a difficult 
ladder? 

With a bitter laugh she broke the seals of a fateful 
document and read, slowly and carefully, its contents. 
And as she read, her face grew very pale, whilst the red 
line of her lips became straight and hard. 

To the end she read, then once again re-read the 
whole as though astonishment had numbed her brain. 

" They met me in the day of success, and I have learned 
by perfectest report, they have more in them than mortal 
knowledge. When I burned in desire to question them 
further, they made themselves — air, into which they van- 
ished. While I stood rapt in the wonder of it, came mes- 
sengers from the king, who all-hailed me, l Thane of Caw- 
dor' by which title before these weird sisters saluted me, 
and referred me to the coming on of time with l Hail, king 
that shalt be.' This have I thought good to deliver thee, 
my dearest partner of greatness, that thou mightest not 



" Macbeth at this time was Moormor of Moray and Ross. 



60 MACBETH 

lose the dues of rejoicing, by being ignorant of what great- 
ness is promised to thee. Lay it to thy heart, and farewell " 

Not once, or twice, but many times read the lady 
that letter, whilst before her dazzled eyes a picture 
rose which seemed to her perfection of human bliss, 
crowning both vengeance and ambition. 

11 Hail, king that shalt be!" 

Ah! had she been by when those soul-damned mes- 
sengers had cried that prophecy she would have been 
swift to stifle down her husband's horrid dread. 

Already, in that imagination which leapt the hollow 
spaces of time and bridged all dark places where horror 
brooded, she saw herself an enthroned queen, her hus- 
band crowned beside her — Lulach the heir to Scotland's 
throne, failing a son born to Macbeth. And, in such 
a vision, she saw also perfection of happiness so much 
to be desired that she would have stopped at no means 
to its attainment. 

Means? Ah ! how she caught her hands to lier breast, 
now to still her heart's wild throbbing. But only for 
a second was she daunted by the thought which had 
held sleep from her husband's eyes for many nights. 

"The king comes here tomorrow," she whispered. 
"Tomorrow." The swiftness with which decision must 
be urged startled her. 

Would that Macbeth were here! Would she could 
hasten his coming! Could she master this fierce im- 
patience till his arrival? 

With hasty steps she began to pace up and down 
the room, whispering to herself, in broken ejaculations — 

"Glamis thou art — and Cawdor. And . . . shalt be 
what thou art promised. Yet do I fear thy nature. 
It is too full of the milk of human kindness to catch 



LADY MACBETH AT HOME 61 

the nearest way. . . . Thou wouldst be great . . . 
art not without ambition . . . and yet would not dare 
to the uttermost to attain it. What thou wouldst 
highly, that wouldst thou nobly. Wouldst not play 
false — and yet wouldst wrongly win. Ah! — to what 
wasted opportunities will such weak-kneed procrastina- 
tion lead? Yet — were he here . . . were he here. . . ." 

Pausing, the muser leaned her arm against the bare 
stonework of the embrasure, from which the oval orifice 
looked out over the low-lying marshes. And in the 
white curve of her elbow she rested her throbbing temples. 

How thoughts crowded within her busy brain! 
Thoughts which she — unlike Macbeth — did not fear to 
face, welcoming them rather as the whispers which 
helped to weave a deadly purpose. 

Passion, like the impotent battling of waves against 
high cliffs, drove within her breast, lashing itself to a 
hurricane of desire and purpose. 

If she could but infuse a wavering will with some 
of her own fire! Ah — if she could. 

The sunset was fading in the west; night, cold and 
chill, was approaching. And when the morrow came, 
Duncan would be here. 

The watcher's beautiful face was convulsed by the 
torment of her hopes and fears. If she herself might 
decide, then Duncan's days were numbered to a single 
span. But her heart grew faint with fear of baffled 
desire as she thought of the husband who might draw 
back in horror from the whisper of a ruthless deed. 

Storm after storm swept raging over the woman's 
soul — that soul made for the white loveliness of woman- 
hood's meek crown — a soul to be filled by gentle love, 
the dream of motherhood, pale purity of upward wing- 



62 MACBETH 

ing thought, rather than a whirlwind of red passion 
and vengeful hate, with the dangerous goad of a vaunt- 
ing ambition to urge its owner forward towards a dread 
abyss. Ah! when Macbeth comes home, what a coun- 
cillor he shall find! 

A child's voice clashed jarringly with all that lurid 
dream. "Mother, the messenger said our lord returns 
within an hour or less. Shall we be meeting him at 
the bridge? Or shall I climb the turret stairs and cry 
to you when I see his horse breasting the hillside? 
Bethoc— " 

The woman who had watched a dying day turned 
fiercely about, frowning on the rosy-faced intruder. 

"Go," she commanded, "trouble me not, little prater, 
lest I punish you. Go — and do not let me see you 
before the morrow. Dost hear? Then obey, lest 
chastisement follow disobedience." 

Lulach crept wonderingly away in search of Bethoc. 
He had often seen his mother angry with his sister, 
but seldom with him — and, after the fashion of spoilt 
babyhood, he resented the injustice. 

But sight of his tears banished a very different dream 
from Bethoc's eyes, and after coaxing her little brother 
successfully into April smiles the two stole down hand- 
in-hand to the hall to try and glean tidings from Dugald 
of how long the king would be staying at the castle. 

The king! It was a grand piece of news that the king 
himself should be coming to their home, and Lulach 
had many questions to ask as to whether he would wear 
his crown of gold and carry a mighty sword upon his 
hip wherewith to slay all his enemies. 

So whilst Dugald related all sorts of fabulous tales 
wherewith to dazzle the childish fancy, Bethoc crept 



LADY MACBETH AT HOME 63 

apart to indulge in happy anticipation of a lover's 
coming. 

Was it possible the handsome young Prince Malcolm 
could be that to her? Ah! no, no, she would not be 
worthy of such a mate. And yet — he loved her. Had 
he not told her so when last they met? A dream half- 
dreamed — then a hurried farewell. Yet how fondly 
she had cherished the word — the look — the clasp of his 
strong hands on hers — the eloquent pleading of gray 
eyes, which had looked her heart away. 

Malcohn! Oh, the music in that name, the welling 
up of all the tide of love in her young breast. Was 
she a child? This blue-eyed maiden who dreamed of 
love? Nay! but rather was she a woman, with the 
dawning passion of a woman's love clamoring at her 
heart, since thus far had the daughter inherited her 
mother's nature — passionate in love — perhaps for that 
very reason passionate in hate; yet without possessing 
the proud ambition which also dominated the elder 
woman's heart. For Bethoc — unloved since her father 
died — was humble of nature, and in her desire thought 
rather of self-sacrifice — for love's sake ... for love's 
sake. 

«, With a little sob of joy the girl climbed the winding 
stair to her room. 

It was dark without — the night had come. But 
tomorrow Malcolm himself would be here. Tomorrow 
the sun would shine. 

Tomorrow! Ah, how well the mists of futurity held 
that morrow from her innocent gaze! 



CHAPTER VI 

REVENGE AND FATE 

TORCHES flared from the iron cressets in the 
wall. There was a joyful baying of hounds, 
which leapt to welcome their master as he strode 
up the great hall to where his wife stood awaiting him. 

Queenly and tall she stood in her close-fitting em- 
broidered gown, girded by a jeweled belt below the 
breast, sleeves of scarlet cloth and gold lace, and a 
head-dress of fine white lawn which, lying straight about 
her ruddy hair, fell to the hem of her gown. 

And, as Macbeth saw her, standing there in the 
garish light thrown by the torches, he recalled the 
words which had echoed so tormentingly in his heart. 
That night he kept vigil in the room of the old castle 
of Forres, where King Duflus had died by an assassin's 
dagger. 

A queen — his queen — Scotland's queen. 

What would she say to that triple title? Well! she 
had read his letter — she would be telling him soon how 
she regarded the weird sisters' prophecy. 

Now she was coming to him, both hands outstretched, 
her head poised, so that he saw the full beauty of a face 
which to him had lost none of its early loveliness, though 
this woman was long past her first youth. 

"Ah, welcome," she cried softly. "Welcome, dear 
lord, so glad am I to greet you." 

It is said that a woman cannot be deceived as to the 

(64) 



REVENGE AND FATE 65 

genuineness of a man's love for her — but none have 
ever denied the ease with which a man himself may 
be tricked. As Macbeth felt the clinging caress of his 
wife's lips his whole being thrilled with the joy of 
believing that this woman was his — heart and soul, 
the wife who loved him with all the ardor of her pas- 
sionate nature. 

Little did he guess how she was even now searching 
his face — not for the love which shone there for her, 
but for the purpose she feared might be faltering in 
him. And what did she read in those dark, fierce eyes 
which demanded, pleaded, besought? Were they not 
the eyes of a man who mutely prayed to be saved — 
from himself? 

Yet the answering flash of her own brilliant orbs 
was one of pride and resolve. Had not this woman a 
part set to play? And she meant to play it to its 
desired conclusion — cost what it might — cost what it 
might. 

"Ah, my Gruoch," whispered Macbeth softly. "So 
you received my message? You make preparation for 
the king's coming on the morrow?" 
! She drew back, the better to see his face, and smiled, 
the smile which told him all her mind. 

"I have made preparation," she replied very sweetly, 
yet with underlying significance in each word. "And 
already welcome my king." 

He turned away with a faint exclamation, half groan, 
half-gasping resolve, and began to speak to the old 
steward who stood near. 

Lady Macbeth moved apart, pausing by a heavy 
curtain of dark woolen fabric which formed fitting 
background to her slender figure. 



66 MACBETH 

She was waiting — and, as she waited with all a 
woman's patient persistence to have her own will, the 
weirdness of the scene became impressed on her. 

The dark hall, with its dingy arras, trophies of chase 
and battlefield, the flaming torches, which showed the 
great apartment with its cumbrous furniture, reed- 
strewn floor, crowding figures of retainers in plaids and 
buskins hurrying to and fro, some bearing in the viands 
for supper, some carrying logs of wood to fling on the 
fire, which was welcome on a chilly evening, all busy, 
all intent. Presently Lulach came running in, kneel- 
ing to greet his stepfather, then jumping up and racing 
round the hall, with Grim, the deerhound, at his heels, 
a buoyant, gay-hearted child, full of exuberant spirits 
at thought of the king's visit on the morrow. Then 
Bethoc entered, slim and graceful, and for the first 
time Macbeth smiled as he kissed the young girl's fair 
brow. Bethoc's mother drew back into the shadow — 
and the old antagonism against this, her elder child, 
kindled more fiercely. What was there in common 
between gentle Bethoc and the turbulent-hearted parent 
who bare her? It was not for some quarter of an hour 
that Macbeth turned from his conversation with Culen 
the steward to seek his wife. And somehow he ap- 
proached more reluctantly now to the woman who had 
filled all his thoughts during his absence from home. 
Was it that he knew she grew impatient to give him 
his answer to the letter he had written? 

Well, the answer must be heard — listened to — pon- 
dered. The answer — his wife would make. 

Neither spoke as they went together to Gruoch's 
room — the room where she had received the messenger 
a few hours earlier. There were lights placed here 



REVENGE AND FATE 67 

too — lights, with many a shadowed nook where the 
flaring rays did not reach. Ghost-haunted nooks, 
where grim spectres might be lurking. 

The door had closed, the curtain fell into place. 
They were alone, husband and wife. He had been in 
the thick of battle since last they met, might have 
received some grievous, scarce-healed wound from cruel 
foes. He had — as she knew — been highly honored by 
the king's favors, so that her heart should have swelled 
with pride as she gave the loving greeting which would 
have set seal to such great and well-merited reward. 

But the woman standing there with the flare of 
torchlight on her handsome face thought of none of 
those things which would have been on her lips and 
in her heart had she truly loved her husband. 

As it was she spoke in a hushed undertone, as one 
who rings a knell on one solemn note. 

"Duncan comes here tomorrow." 

Macbeth clenched his hands and drew deep breath 
as one called to face what he fears. 

"Yes," he replied. 

"And when goes hence?" 

"The day following — as he purposes." 

"As he purposes." 

She was near him now, and though they spoke of 
things which yet they dared not name, each soul was 
bare to the other's gaze at the moment. 

Again Gruoch spoke, seeing how her husband's face 
blanched, his eyes wavered. 

She had caught his hand in hers, raised it to her 
lips, though her eyes never left his face. 

"All hail, Macbeth," she murmured, "that shalt be 
king hereafter." 



68 MACBETH 

He started violently and withdrew his hand. 

Had the powers of darkness pursued him to his own 
home that they might damn his soul? 

If so, they had chosen their instrument well, for the 
woman who watched her companion's face could tell 
exactly how those words had fallen like seeds into 
responsive soil. But, since the time was short, she 
must tend their growth with diligence. 

"He that's coming must be provided for," she went 
on. "Leave it to me. There is opportunity here to 
mate with fate. Shall we let both pass us on the road 
of life? It is decreed, I, your wife, know that. Those 
who met you in the day of success spoke truth. Here 
is justice, here is purpose, here we stand to face the 
future. All hail, my king! Is not that a fair title? 
And I — your wife — am the first to cry the words which 
honor you." 

Ambition stirred once more within him. Each softly 
murmured word became a clarion call. Through the 
eyes he loved he saw himself a crowned and puissant 
king, ruling the land he coveted. Ambition called — 
and was answered by a shuddering horror. 

For an instant Macbeth looked into the abyss between 
him and his goal, and saw what lay there. 

"Nay, nay," he cried passionately. "Such words 
have no honor — but a curse. Banquo spoke truly 
there. Listen, wife, I am Thane of Cawdor. Is not 
that enough? The king honors and trusts me. I think 
he loves me too. Let no black whispers haunt my 
couch till he has come and gone." 

Lady Macbeth hesitated. Had the lure of ambition 
failed? Not altogether! Beads of sweat stood out on 
her husband's brow. He had supped on poison, later 



REVENGE AND FATE 69 

she would administer another dose. At present she 
yielded to his restless will, stole to his arms, and with 
her own wreathed about him flayed the role of tender 
wife, suffered his kisses and endearments, smiled very 
subtly in greeting to his eager looks, and, Delilah-like, 
wove fresh chains about the man who loved her. 

So Macbeth, endeavoring to banish all grim cares, 
supped with appetite, listened to Lulach's artless chat- 
ter as the child insisted on serving him, and brought 
the blushes to Bethoc's cheeks in speaking at random 
of a lover. 

Poor child! At any such careless allusion her heart 
beat fast fearing her secret betrayed, since none knew 
how she and the young Prince Malcolm had trysted 
each other from time to time; for, with a woman's 
intuition, Bethoc knew her mother would have forbidden 
the meetings which were so precious to her. It was, 
however, not till long after Bethoc had fallen asleep, 
to dream of the lover who would be coming on the 
morrow, whilst little Lulach laughed in his slumbers 
at thought of the gay feastings and revelries to be held 
in the king's honor, that Macbeth sought his wife's 
chamber. 

The castle was dark and silent now. The fire in the 
outer courtyard burned low. Night birds cried dis- 
cordantly from the marshes near, and the wind wailed 
about the castle walls. 

Macbeth, passing along narrow stone passages, felt 
his blood chill. What evil haunted this home of his, 
whose presence had never been felt before? 

This was not the gloomy old fort at Forres, where 
Duffus the king had died. No such deed of blood 
sullied these rooms. And yet? He quickened his pace, 



70 MACBETH 

relieved to find himself presently in the lighted room 
where Gruoch awaited him. 

Did she await him? At first he glanced around 
surprised to see an empty couch; but instantly he 
espied her — a dark wrap flung over her night attire, 
as she crouched in yonder carved seat, her beautiful 
arms rigid before her pillowing her hidden features, 
whilst the ruddy glory of her unbound tresses lay about 
her shoulders like a mantle of flame. 

"Wife," he whispered. "Wife." 

She sprang to her feet, facing him — more beautiful 
in this strange passion which obsessed her than he had 
ever seen her. 

But it was Macbeth himself who spoke first. 

"What is it, dearest love," he asked, "that you 
weep?" 

"Weep?" she echoed. "Come nearer, husband, and 
you will see my eyes are undimmed by tears. I have 
no tears to shed; their fountain was dried long years 
ago. Nay, if you ask me why I lay thus in bitter 
thought, you shall hear the tale — have patience — and 
listen." 

She drew him down beside her on the carved settle 
and rested her hands on his arm, thrusting her face 
close so that he should read the tale of her eyes. 

"There was a cry in my ears," she whispered. "It 
has been echoing there for hours past. My father's 
cry as he sank down in death under an assassin's dag- 
ger. My brother, too, laughing, blithesome Gocha, 
twin-born with me. He was scarcely more than a 
child, but a tyrant would not spare him any more than 
he would have spared me, had I and my children been 
in our home on the day when my husband died. There 



REVENGE AND FATE 71 

were flames about our castle walls that day, dear lord — 
and the flames have smouldered in my woman's breast 
ever since. Do you not feel the burning smart your- 
self, since you too have wrongs to avenge on those of 
Malcolm's bloody line?" 

"My father died in battle," quoth Macbeth "and 
yet " 

"And yet," echoed his wife. "Ah! do not shame your 
honor by such a pause. What is decreed must be. 
Thus fate works into the hands of justice. Will you 
not still and soothe the suffering of my woman's heart, 
Macbeth? Behold my wrongs — avenge them." 

The words broke from her lips in a cry. With arms 
wreathed about him, her face upturned, she pleaded 
fiercely, with a dominance which the man's weaker 
nature acknowledged. 

Love and ambition called him with trumpet note, 
and where singly each might have failed, the combined 
spell won. 

There was silence for a while after that last fierce 
cry. Husband and wife sat as in a trance gazing into 
each other's faces. 

"Avenge them." 

Was that the inspiration, or was it the echo of Ilda 
the witch's words, "All hail! thou that shalt be king 
hereafter?" 

These wrongs — half forgotten during past years — 
to be the stepping stones to reach ambition's goal? 

"What shall I do?" groaned Macbeth. "What shall 
I do?" 

He knew now — but for the moment a mental paralysis 
seemed to have seized him. 

Lady Macbeth smiled as she swayed against him, 



72 MACBETH 

conquering him by the seductive charm of her woman- 
hood. 

"Shall I tell you?" she whispered, and pressed rosy 
lips close to his ear. 

"This is — revenge/' she concluded. "A just revenge." 
He looked at her, half-dazed. 

"No — not revenge," he replied dully, "but — fate." 

She laughed softly. 

"By all and any name, what care I," she asked, 
"so the deed be done. The deed that shall make you 
king." 

Again ambition clutched him, dragging him down to 
depths where senses were stifled by longing, and from 
which he gazed to heights above. And over the chasm 
between brooded a darkness which was like unto a 
pall. 



CHAPTER VII 

AN OLD EMBLEM 

A HORSEMAN rode up the steep side of a brae 
reining in his horse as his keen gaze traversed 
the plain beneath him. 
On the hill to the right stood the castle of Inverness, 
built by King Brude, a rude structure, partly of stone, 
partly compiled of wood and wattle; the plain, which 
stretched seawards, was little better than a morass, 
whilst at the base of the "crown," or castle hill, was 
a huddle of low houses — built of wood, clay, wattle or 
turf, most of them thatched, and all crowded against 
the hillside as though resting under its shadow. 
i Beyond the low houses was the river, winding in and 
out on its way seawards. The sunlight sparkled on its 
waters till it reached the deeper shadow of the valley, 
whilst there, in the distance, near a clump of alders, 
stood a figure close to the river side. 
; And Malcolm Canmore laughed, the gay laughter of 
youth, springtide and dawning love, as he set spurs 
into the flanks of a weary steed, riding recklessly down 
the rough braeside to where a girl stood awaiting him 
in the morning sunshine. 

HHad Bethoc known that he, this lover as he called 
himself, would outride the king's cortege in hopes of 
some such meeting as this? If so, she had guessed 
aright. He had come — was here — long ere King Dun- 
can could hope to sight the dark towers of his host's 

(73) 



74 MACBETH 

castle. A slim figure it was, in a dress of some dull 
green fabric, the folds of her plaid fastened at the 
breast by a jeweled clasp, and at her feet the purple 
and yellow of iris blooms to perfect a picture of love's 
young dream such as the softly flowing river sang of. 

A long curl of her glossy raven tresses hung down 
by the side of an oval cheek and was tied by a green 
riband. Raven tresses, blue eyes and white skin of 
satin softness, under which the rosy blushes flamed at 
sight of a lover. How fair was she, this Bethoc, daughter 
of the gay but ill-fated Gilcomgain, and descendant of 
Kenneth the Grim. 

Was it possible that shadows of the past could steal 
across a sunlit path? Lips for kisses, eyes for love, 
heart for passion. Oh! how good it was to dream here 
by the river-side, with spring breezes singing amongst 
yellow and purple flags and love songs in hearts young, 
glad and happy. 

Malcolm had tethered his steed to an alder stump 
and stood by his lady's side. How young they were, 
how unclouded their sky! 

"You awaited me, Bethoc, little Bethoc?" whis- 
pered the prince eagerly, as he held both her hands 
and looked deep into those smiling blue eyes. 

Ah! she would have waited longer hours than these 
for one glimpse of that handsome face, one echo of that 
tender voice. 

Her starved soul had been so hungry for love till 
he came. And now? Now she was humble in her joy, 
afraid she might lose the treasure which was life, breath, 
being to her. 

But none of these things could she tell him; she was 
dumb because she feared to say too much, to give too 



AN OLD EMBLEM 75 

wide a glimpse of that passionate heart which beat for 
him alone. 

If he knew! If he understood! Yet he could not do 
so, since there had been no tragedy in his life as there 
had been in hers. He had never known what it was 
to be hungry for love since he could not recall the 
mother who had died when Donalbain was born, and 
his father had been father and mother both ever since. 

So he could not sound the tragic depths of her fears 
as she thought of what it would mean to lose this lover 
even whilst she felt the passion of his first kiss. 

"I love you," whispered Malcolm. "I love you, 
little Bethoc, fairest and dearest of maidens." And he 
laughed the glad laugh of the possessor, the conqueror, 
the lover who knows he has won his prize. 

How the birds sang — as they never had before and 
might never do again; how the sun shone, warming 
their hearts till all life was bathed in a golden light. 
What matter that the marsh lands yonder were flat and 
dreary, or that gray ocean waves broke sadly on a 
barren shore? They needed to gaze no further than 
each other's eyes and were perfectly happy. 

What matter that he was Malcolm, son of Duncan 
the King; was he not grandson of Malcolm the Vic- 
torious? And was it not good that his own first victory 
should be in the lists of love? He never even recalled 
that she whose blue eyes had won his heart was daughter 
to Gilcomgain, who had died a terrible death at his 
grandsire's command, or that the blood of Kenneth the 
Grim ran in her veins. 

So they dreamed as they paced onward in the sun- 
light, and when they spoke, it was but the echo of then- 
hearts, crying each to its mate in the language of love. 



76 MACBETH 

Nor did Bethoc voice her fears, for had not Malcolm 
sworn that she alone was his love whom he would wed 
and no other? Ah! how fair a picture did he paint 
of years in which they would be always together, always 
loving, always happy. 

Thus rang the song of love in springtide when eyes 
are blind to what must be by inevitable decree of life, 
and ears refuse to listen to the long wail of suffering 
humanity which claims them too for kin. 

It was as unreal, shadowy and wraithlike as the mists 
of dawn, yet, on their knees they might — had they known 
— have thanked God for such mists as hid the future 
from them. 

Oh ! Love was sweet and good and wonderful to 
Malcolm Canmore and Bethoc, daughter of a murdered 
father, that day, which in all the after years of life 
should never be forgotten. A memory to draw tender 
tears to the eyes of snowy-haired age, because of the 
joy of its passion. 

And when at length they turned reluctant feet back 
to where Malcolm's horse cropped the grass under the 
alder shade, the young man drew from his finger a ring 
of exquisitely worked bronze, in the form of a spiral 
double serpent, and slipped it on that of his companion. 

"So by a sign I claim you mine, sweet one," he 
whispered. "You will not forget Malcolm when you 
see the ring." 

She smiled and shuddered together, twisting the ring 
about with nervous touch. 

"I would the emblem were different," said she. "A 
serpent in our Eden." 

"Close coiled to bind our hearts in one," added 
Malcolm. "See no fear where no fear need abide, 



AN OLD EMBLEM 77 

my Bethoc. What should we dread? Today my 
father tarries as honored guest in great Macbeth's 
house. He is the latter's friend as well as king. He 
will be glad to welcome his son's bride when I bring 
thee to him." 

So Bethoc yielded to persuasion. Yielded to the 
passionate joy of that spring-time hour in which love 
reigned as monarch over the kingdom of their hearts. 

"I love thee." Such was the confession Malcolm 
listened to that day — and Bethoc spoke with the quiver- 
ing tones of one whose words can never tell the surging 
tumult of her heart. Love to the daughter of Gilcom- 
gain and Gruoch was no gentle and placid current, 
but a tempest which shook her whole soul and body 
with fierce gladness that was akin to pain. And yet 
each told the other that the secret of their love must 
be carefully guarded in their own hearts — till Malcolm 
returned from Scone. What secret could be sweeter — 
more cherished? But Bethoc's eyes were dark with 
longing as Malcolm sealed that secret on her lips. 



CHAPTER VIII 



THE FATEFUL HOUR 



THE king had come! 
Without in the courtyard the bustle of so 
important an arrival was in progress. 

Macbeth himself was attending on his royal guest, 
who was in the highest of spirits and lingered on the 
steps leading to the hall to praise the view which, 
though not commending itself for beauty in the imme- 
diate vicinity, gave distant glimpses of forest, sea and 
mountains. 

The mistress of the castle awaited within, a proud 
and gracious personage, entirely masking the furious 
fever which surged in her veins, beating with tem- 
pestuous strokes within heart and brain. 

And every stroke a knell — for Duncan. 

Behind her stood Bethoc and Lulach, pleasantly 
expectant, the former smiling in sly deceit as she thought 
of the secret tryst by which she had already welcomed 
one who had rejoined the king's train in presenting 
himself at her stepfather's castle. 

Lulach, child-like, gaped in open curiosity at sight of 
the kingly figure which, with Macbeth and many nobles 
in close attendance, came striding up the hall to greet 
his hostess. 

The lady curtsied low, so that she seemed to kneel 
in deepest reverence before her guest. At first her 
eyes were veiled in modest obeisance, but when she 

(78) 



THE FATEFUL HOUR 79 

raised them there was only a smile of clearest welcome 
to be read in depths which so well concealed the dark 
enigma of her thoughts. 

And she was beautiful. So much Duncan saw at a 
glance, and looked again, well pleased to find such 
loveliness to gaze upon. The ruddy tresses of her hair 
gleamed beneath the straight folds of her snowy head- 
dress, her swan-like neck seemed all too slender to carry 
its dainty burden so gracefully. 

A queen — his queen — Scotland's queen. 

Seeing her thus, bowing before the king his master, 
Macbeth's thoughts flashed like a searing iron through 
his soul. It passed, leaving him cold. 

Opportunity was here — and Gruoch his wife had vowed 
him to a task which she was minded should be per- 
formed. Yet, to the man who watched, the passing 
scene was as some strange panorama having no reality. 

Was yon smiling, gracious woman she who had cursed 
all King Malcolm's blood-stained line, Vowing that none 
should live who called a tyrant sire? 

And Duncan was Malcolm's heir, as the younger 
Malcolm was heir to Duncan. 

Avaunt such hellish thoughts as those born in his 
brain! His wife had been mad to whisper them last 
night. She did not mean a word of the tale she raved. 

"See," quoth Duncan, raising the lady very gallantly 
and kissing her forehead in kindly salutation. "Our 
honored hostess. How shall I thank you for all the 
trouble you have been at pains to take in bestowing 
on us such loving welcome?" 

She did not flush or pale, but remained calm and 
self-possessed, yet bestowing all the witchery of which 
she was capable in an answer low-pitched and sweet. 



80 MACBETH 

"All our service in every point, twice done and then 
done double, were poor and single business to contend 
against those honors wherewith your majesty loads our 
house,'' she replied, and smiled — a radiant smile of 
guileless gratitude. 

And the king was pleased with the answer, well grati- 
fied with his welcome, therefore, waxing more genial 
in his graciousness, as, with his hand resting on the 
lady's arm, he turned about. 

"Where's the Thane of Cawdor?" cried he, grasping 
the latter by the other hand and drawing him close, 
so that they three stood together in friendly intercourse. 
"We coursed him at the heels," he added laughing, as 
he turned from host to hostess, "and had a purpose to 
be his purveyor. But he rides well, and his great love, 
sharp as his spur, hath brought him to his home before 
us. Fair and noble hostess, we are your guests tonight." 

Fair she was in sooth — but did she, nourishing for 
one instant such a thought as had been born in her 
last night, deserve the title of nobility? Perhaps she 
asked herself that question in bitter irony! as she stood 
alone presently in her room, fastening the jeweled chain 
about the white neck which bent and swayed to and 
fro in restless movement 

It was a moment of weakness. Such weakness as 
she had deemed herself incapable of feeling. 

The king had shown himself so kingly, so gracious, 
so other to her thoughts of him. 

This was no tyrant, and surely some trick of nature 
had drained every drop of Malcolm's murderous blood 
from out the veins, which flowed instead with m'lk of 
human kindness. There could be no mistaking the 
gentle beneficence of Duncan's gaze, his generous praise 



THE FATEFUL HOUR 81 

of her husband, his hints of future greatness, little 
dreaming indeed that he to whom he promised so much 
was minded to snatch yet more than he could give. 

Was there no voice amongst the angel hosts of Heaven 
to cry a warning in the ear of such a king? No kindly 
presentiment to carry such feet as his to safety? The 
lady sighed, her spirits weighed down by the shadow of 
a passing remorse. 

Remorse! Could the grand-chick of Kenneth the 
Grim feel so weak a twinging when bloody deeds 
remained unavenged? 

Passing remorse! Aye — and sharp goads to speed it 
on its way. With an effort Lady Macbeth rallied from 
a squeamish fit, and, battling fiercely with so foolish 
a mood, lashed herself to fresh fury by thoughts of 
wrongs performed by those to whom the gracious Dun- 
can owed his being. 

A cruel law of vengeance — yet sufficient. Remorse 
had fled into the shadows of gray evening twilight before 
the king's hostess descended to take her place at the 
board, where feasting on a lavish scale was soon in 
progress. 

The king had been right when he prophesied a royal 
hospitality. Rich wines, savory viands, diligent attend- 
ance, and a courteous host bade fair to make the evening 
a merry one, and that in spite of the fact that the night 
closed in stormily and more than one peal of thunder 
echoed round the lonely castle, booming like some crack 
of doom as it rolled onwards to the shore. 

But Macbeth bade the harpist strike his chords to a 
more stirring measure, whilst the old man sang in full 
rich tones a ballad which praised the deeds of Duncan's 
grandsire, who by his prowess swept the Danish pirates 



82 MACBETH 

from Scottish coasts after the fierce battle of Aber- 
lemmo. Thus the victorious king's deeds of fair renown 
were chronicled in eulogistic song, chronicles of many 
years, since for — 

Thirty years of variegated reign 
Was king by fate — Malcolm. 

Nor did Duncan, faintly smiling at the compliment 
which the Gaelic bard would fain have put upon him, 
guess why his lovely hostess grew suddenly death-pale, 
as though some grisly ghost had risen from its grave to 
confront her, nor dream that the stirring stanzas of the 
harpist's song accounted for his host's abrupt rising 
from the supper table, and, with some hurried excuse, 
quitting the hall — alone. 

Was Macbeth seized with sudden indisposition, or 
had the steward whispered in his ear that some other 
guest had arrived, whose coming might be importunate? 

Lady Macbeth, seeing the question in the king's eyes 
as he turned to her, contrived to rally her self-possession. 

She knew now just what was going to happen — and 
that there could be no drawing back. 

Hugh, the bard, had unconsciously sealed the king's 
fate when he sang of the prowess of Malcolm the 
Victorious. 

No, there was no going back. The woman at least 
could smile at her own weakness engendered by the 
gracious kindliness of a noble sovereign. 

There was a vow which, failing in its original purpose, 
must descend from generation to generation. A vow, 
the wife of Gilcomgain, Moormor of Moray, had reg- 
istered, as she listened to the crackling of the flame 
which formed the holocaust around a beloved husband. 



THE FATEFUL HOUR 83 

4 

"It is nothing," she smiled, in reply to Duncan's 
unspoken question. "My lord is often seized with 
these fits of dizziness, engendered, as the leech declares, 
by too much emotion. The joy of receiving your 
majesty must account for my husband's brief indis- 
position. But, if I may seek him out and give him 
the draught which speedily restores him on these occa- 
sions, he shall return forthwith to this chamber.' ' 

The king acceded to the request with many expres- 
sions of concern. He had had a brief glimpse of Mac- 
beth's pale and distorted face and feared that his wife 
made too light of the illness, on account of hospitable 
entertainment. 

But the lady's tranquil expression and deliberate 
movements were reassuring; if so devoted a wife failed 
to be alarmed there was surely no reason for others to 
be anxious. 

So the feast proceeded, though with less hilarity, and 
more than one low whispering, which voiced curiosity 
and concern. For none of the Moormor's friends or 
dependents had ever heard of these attacks, which his 
wife declared were so common an occurrence. 

And Bethoc, in vague alarm, looked to where Malcolm 
sat near the place her stepmother had quitted, but for- 
got to answer the uneasy questioning of her heart when 
she saw him smile. 

Meantime, Lady Macbeth had made haste to seek her 
husband out. She herself was schooled and strung to 
action — this. awful action which she had vowed should 
be — shutting eyes, ears, senses, to the voices which cried 
in argument and condemnation for pity, mercy, justice. 

She had felt remorse — and conquered it. The weak- 
ness had left her hard as flinty rock, so that soul and 



84 MACBETH 

body seemed drained of all the gentler elements of 
womanhood. Come what might, she was going blindly 
to her goal, having vowed a purpose should be carried 
out. 

Revenge and ambition reigned supreme within the 
woman's breast, and the deadly desires consumed her 
very soul. 

She found him whom she sought in his own room, 
crouching in a seat by the bed, a creature already con- 
vulsed by horror of himself, writhing in the grip of giant 
temptation. Had his wife not come Duncan's knell 
had never sounded from the castle of Inverness 

But she was here, regarding him with calm, cold 
eyes, which held contempt, so that Macbeth was fain 
to plead in extenuation of his own irresolution. 

"If it is to be done, then 'twere well it were done 
quickly," he muttered. "But we must think first. 
Assassination! Listen to the word, Gruoch — it hath an 
ugly sound. Ah, God! Shall it be done? If I but 
thought of the life to come I would risk it, and claim 
success by this final deed. But, alas! in these cases 
we still have judgment here. Bloody acts return to 
plague the doers. This even-handed justice forces the 
poisoned chalice to our own lips. How will this end?" 

The beautiful woman, tall and stately in her close- 
fitting robes, stooped forward, touching his shoulder. 

"All hail, Macbeth," she whispered, "that shalt be 
king hereafter. Fate spoke then." 

He raised haggard eyes to hers, seeing unalterable 
purpose in the latter's clear depths — nor could he guess 
how once even she had wavered as he was doing. 

"He's here in double trust," he entreated, urging the 
case of Duncan as against some harsh judge. "First, 



THE FATEFUL HOUR 85 

as I am his kinsman and subject, strong both against 
the deed; then, as his host, who should be the first to 
shut the door against his murderer — not bear the knife 
myself. Besides, this Duncan is a good and worthy 
king, faithful and upright in his great office, so that his 
virtues will plead like angels, trumpet-tongued, against 
the deep damnation of his murder. Damnation! And 
none to pity such a curse upon the perpetrator of a 
bloody treachery; only pity for him, pity for the kindly 
king whose generosity I should thus repay if our pur- 
pose be fulfilled. A purpose to which I have no spur 
to prick me by vaunting ambition." 

She had listened — this, his wife, standing motionless 
before him, her eyes upon his face. 

That steadfast gaze brought trembling to the man 
thus fixed by it, his regard grew more wild, more rest- 
less — but he was gradually being dominated by a will 
which at the time was more resolute than his own. 

"The king has almost supped," quoth Gruoch very 
calmly. "Why have you left the chamber?" 

She knew the reason well enough, so there was no 
need to answer. 

"Hath he asked for me?" muttered Macbeth. 

"Know you not he has?" 

He sprang to his feet, trying to break free from a 
mesmeric influence. 

"We will proceed no further in this business," he 
declared roughly. "The king hath honored me of late, 
and I have bought golden opinions from all sorts of 
people, which would be worn now in their newest glass, 
not cast away so soon." 

Still the woman remained tranquil, though more 
scornful, standing there like some beauteous figure of 
fate which he could not escape. 



86 MACBETH 

"Was the hope drunk, wherein you dressed yourself ?" 
she asked softly. "Hath it slept since — and wakes it 
now, to look so green and pale at what it did so freely? 
From this time such I account your love. Art thou 
afraid to be the same in thine own act and valor as 
thou art in desire? Would you have that what you 
esteem the ornament of life, and live a coward in your 
own esteem, letting 'I dare not' wait upon 'I would,' 
like the poor cat i' the adage?" 

Macbeth clasped his hands about his head. He was 
in torment — because a woman tempted him against his 
conscience — whilst ambition took the woman's part and 
honor sided with conscience. 

"Peace," he groaned. "Peace, wife. I dare do all 
that may become a man; who dare do more, is none." 

She laughed — and surely sound of merriment was 
never more out of place. 

"What beast was it then," she taunted, "that made 
you break this enterprise to me? When you durst do 
it, then you were a man. Have you not sworn to play 
your part with fate. Stand and face the future by my 
side. A king — and I your queen. The highest award — 
your due, and mine. Is not the blood of kings in your 
blood as well as in these veins of mine? Does not the 
blood of a king — a father, husband, brother, plead for 
recompense? Fate gives the hour — if you let it pass, 
she will not make the offer again." 

"If we should fail — " whispered Macbeth, and his 
eyes were dark with horror. 

Again a low, scornful laugh broke from those lips, 
which had been framed for nothing harsher than kisses. 

"We fail!" she gibed. "But screw your courage to 
the sticking place, and we'll not fail." 



THE FATEFUL HOUR 87 

She crept towards him, her hand — a white and shapely 
hand, gleaming with jewels — upon the flowing sleeve of 
his tunic. "When Duncan is asleep," she continued, 
in those same insistent tones which pierced the clogged 
cells of her listener's brain, "which is like to be a sound 
slumber after his day's hard journey, I will see to it 
that his two grooms drink deeply enough of a potion 
which will hold senses and sight blind and dulled in an 
unconsciousness like to death. The king left unguarded, 
our way is clear — and, when the day shall show the 
deed, our guilt shall easily be borne by those who failed 
in their watch and ward." 

Macbeth paused in his restless pacing, and his dark 
eyes gleamed beneath their shaggy brows. 

"Why so — and so," he breathed. "Thus it might 
well be. The grooms beside the king — smeared by his 
blood, their own daggers used in the doing of the deed. 
Why! Who will dare look farther for murderers than 
there in his very chamber?" 

"None will so dare," asserted his wife confidently. 
"Whilst we shall safely raise clamor and loud-voiced 
grief upon his death." 

He stretched out his hand involuntarily, and Gruoch, 
knowing her will was won, swayed over it pressing it 
with her lips. "My king," she whispered. "The king 
who shalt be hereafter." 

Like some fiery-hearted fate she urged him thus along 
ambition's path, heedless of what they both must find 
after the treading of that bloody way. 

Blind passion for revenge to be consummated this 
night; blind vaunting of ambition, which lay now within 
the reach of eager grasp, kept both — for the time — 
from seeing that which lay yonder in the shadows — 
the gray and ghastly features of an inevitable remorse. 



CHAPTER IX 

a king's death knell 

THE storm had passed, but the night was dark — 
pitchy blackness over all the land — a mourning 
pall to hide earth's corruption. 

In the castle on the crown all was hushed and still, 
save where, in the courtyard, a sleepy porter drowsed 
over a great fire of smouldering logs. There was the 
chill of a spring night in the air, and an opening door 
brought a draught which scattered the white ash of 
the logs over the stones and nearly blew out the waver- 
ing torch carried by a servant, who held it high so that 
the lurid glare shone around on dark walls and wide 
wooden beams. 

Behind the servant came Banquo, his little son beside 
him. 

The soldier had come in search of his friend and host, 
since he had learned from one of the castle servants 
that Macbeth was making a final round of the place 
to see all was secure before retiring. A most natural 
precaution was this, seeing what guest slept under the 
Moormor's roof that night. But Banquo was oppressed 
by a heavy weight of anxiety. Presentiment of evil 
lay upon his soul; he was eager to find Macbeth, to look 
into his eyes, to reassure himself that this was indeed 
the noble-hearted friend who had fought so valiantly 
against traitors. 

Traitors! The word had an ugly sound for Banquo. 

(88) 



A KING'S DEATH KNELL 89 

The Thane of Cawdor, whose death had expiated his 
crime, had been an honorable gentleman before ambi- 
tion seduced him by her wicked whispers. 

Was there a curse in the title of Cawdor? 

The question was thrust aside, and Banquo, resolved 
to crush down unworthy suspicions, rested his hand 
kindly on his young son's shoulder. 

Fleance was sleepy — so sleepy that he stumbled in his 
steps, but he had refused to go to bed without his father. 
He liked this castle of Inverness but little, and earlier 
in the evening had quarreled, to the verge of fighting, 
with spoiled Lulach. 

"How goes the night, boy?" asked his father. 

Fleance blinked brown eyes as solemnly as a little 
owl. "The moon is down," he replied. "I have not 
heard the clock" 

He stifled a yawn with difficulty. 

"And she goes down at twelve," mused Banquo. 

"I take it, 'tis later, sir," added Fleance wistfully. 

"Hold," said his father. "Take my sword. There's 
husbandry in Heaven — their candles are all out." 

He approached the fire, stirring glowing logs with his 
toe. His face was gloomy as he stared musingly into 
the red, cavernous depths at his feet. A witch's cavern 
it might have been — with gray-clad forms stealing in 
and out, wreathing lean arms about their heads, whilst 
crafty eyes leered at him, and shrill, wailing voices 
echoed in his ears. 

And the voices had hailed Macbeth by strange titles. 

Why was it the atmosphere of this place so oppressed 
Macbeth's friend? Why did he long to be away, draw- 
ing deep breaths of fresher, less tainted air? 

Impatiently he turned from his brooding to re-cross 
the courtyard. 



90 MACBETH 

"A heavy summons lies like lead upon me," he mur- 
mured, less to Fleance than to himself, "and yet I 
would not sleep. Merciful powers — restrain in me the 
cursed thoughts that Nature gives way to in repose. 
Give me my sword." 

He took back the heavy weapon from sleepy Fleance 
and would have climbed the stairs back toward his own 
apartment had not a second torch flared from a passage 
near, and Macbeth, preceded by a servant, appeared. 

Banquo moved forward instantly, glad to have suc- 
ceeded in his mission. 

"The king's a-bed," said he, greeting his host, with 
an effort to assume his usual genial manner. "He has 
been greatly pleased with his entertainment, and after 
sending forth suitable largess to your servants, bids me 
greet your wife by the name of most kind hostess and 
ask her acceptance of this diamond in token of his 
esteem and gratitude." 

Macbeth took the jewel in fingers that slightly shook. 

"Had we been better prepared," he replied dully, 
"our entertainment had lacked less." 

"All's well," replied Banquo lightly; then, as the 
torch-light showed him the other's face, his gaze grew 
keener and more searching. 

"I dreamt last night of the three weird sisters," he 
added; "to you they have showed some truth." 

Macbeth could not repress a slight start. "I think 
not of them," he declared — but the carelessness of the 
speech was overdone, and, knowing this to be the case, 
he added, with greater earnestness, "Yet, friend, when 
we have an hour to spare from stress of business, I 
would talk with you a space on that same subject." 

"At your leisure," replied Banquo, and instinctively 



A KING'S DEATH KNELL 91 

drew little Fleance closer to his side. Were the shadows 
which gathered so thickly in that gloomy courtyard, 
likely to touch his boy? 

Presentiment clung like some moist but intangible 
vapor about his soul as, wishing his host good-night, 
Banquo led his young son away. 

Macbeth also had quitted the courtyard and entered 
a room close to the staircase leading towards the king's 
apartments. A passage to the right bed, also to his 
own rooms. 

Macbeth motioned his servant to place the torch in 
the cresset above the table. 

"Go," he commanded, "bid your mistress strike a 
bell when my drink is prepared. Get thee to bed." 

The man obeyed. There was nothing unusual in 
the order, and being weary himself, he was glad to 
stumble off to his hard couch after giving the message 
to his mistress' waiting woman. 

Left alone in that empty chamber, illumined only by 
a single torch, Macbeth himself kept awful vigil. The 
ringing of the bell was indeed to be a signal — not that 
a potion was prepared for him — but a dagger for his 
guest. 

His guest! — his king. The gracious sovereign who 
had sworn to plant him in honor, who had so heaped 
favor upon him that he had engendered the dangerous 
lust for more than the giver might choose to give. 

And now the crisis was here. The crisis of a king- 
dom as well as of many individual lives. 

No wonder a brooding hush lay on all around, a dark 
and terrible pall, which crushed the soul of a man down 
to abysmal depths. 

Half crazed by the ugly torments of ambitious and 



92 MACBETH 

vengeful thoughts, first quickened to life by the fateful 
words of Ilda the witch, Macbeth was in no normal frame 
of mind. A delirium was upon him, wrought by sleep- 
less nights and his wife's ceaseless importunities. She 
had been stronger than his better self — this Gruoch, 
a king's grandchild, a woman fierce in her passions 
of love and hate. But Macbeth had no time to moralize 
on these passions, which scarcely touched the chief actors 
in the drama of tonight. Love for dead Gilcomgain, 
hate for dead Malcolm, inspired the woman in whose 
bosom such passion kindled to urge her husband to 
murder a kindly and innocent victim. 

Sweat bathed the watcher's face; his hand was cold. 
With fixed and staring eyes, he muttered, "Is this 
a dagger which I see before me? The handle toward 
my hand? Come, let me clutch thee! — I have thee 
not, and yet I see thee still. Art thou not, fatal vision, 
sensible to feeling as to sight? Or art thou but a dag- 
ger of the mind? Or false creation, proceeding from 
the heat-oppressed brain? I see thee yet ... in form 
as palpable as this which now I draw." He clutched 
at the dagger at his belt — but his eyes — wild in that 
delirious madness, stared into the darkest shadows of 
the room. "I see thee still," he panted, cowering back 
in his seat, "and, on thy blade and dudgeon gouts of 
blood, which was not so before. There's no such thing!" 
— he snatched at the empty air, staggering to his feet 
as the horrid vision of that ghostly dagger passed away. 
"It is the bloody business which cheats my sight. Ah, 
the night! — the night — in which over one-half wild 
Nature seems dead — and, in seeming death, wicked 
dreams hover in sleeping brains to madden them. How 
witchcraft celebrates pale Hecate's offering, and with- 




"I see thee yet ... in form as palpable as this which now I draw." 



A KING'S DEATH KNELL 93 

ered murder stalks with his sentinel the wolf, whose 
howl becomes his watch. Thus also ghosts creep forth, 
silent of foot, silent but terrible. So should my foot- 
steps be. I pray the very stones not to hear my tread 
lest they should tell hereafter whither I went. And 
whither do I go? Whither?" 

As if in answer to that agonized question a bell rang 
out in the silence of the night. A little, sweet-toned 
bell, which tinkled faint but clear — all too clear to one 
listener's ears — but not to his alone. Bethoc, roused, 
she knew not why, from pleasant dreams, in which 
her lover smiled at her from a river's bridge, sat up 
in bed to listen. 

A little tinkling bell, rung in the silence of the night. 
What summons was that? 

Poor child! Who was there to tell her it was a king's 
death knell? Who was there to show her the figure of 
a man creeping with stealthy steps along stone passages, 
black as Erebus, and up the winding stairs towards 
Duncan's apartments — a frozen horror on his face — 
a dagger clutched in his right hand? Who was there to 
tell her that her own mother stood on the threshold of 
her room listening, listening, her breath caught back the 
better to hear every sound, a terrible expression of 
triumph and fear transforming her beautiful face to the 
distorted mask of a fiend? Or, alas! who was there to 
warn a young and innocent girl to stay where she was, 
to lie down and close her eyes in sleep, forgetting that 
she had ever heard the sound of that sweet-toned little 
bell? 

Bethoc had flung back the bedclothes, and wrapping 
a dark cloak over her night attire, stole from her room. 

Perhaps Lulach was ill — or her mother! The bell 



94 MACBETH 

had surely rung from the direction of her mother's room. 
Why she went she did not ask herself;' instinct and the 
desire to offer help, if such were needed, prompted her. 
Mayhap, too, it was that same inconsequent instinct 
which drew her back to the shelter of the heavy hang- 
ings before a door, as footsteps sounded from the direc- 
tion of her mother's room, and she spied a tall figure 
coming towards her, a little lantern held in her hand. 
It was her mother herself — and at sight of that 
mother's face Bethoc crouched down in the darkness 
behind the thick folds of the curtain, praying to the 
saints that she should not be discovered — for she was 
suddenly afraid — with an overmastering terror of what 
she was about to see — what she might be about to hear. 
What! What! 



CHAPTER X 

WEAKNESS AND STRENGTH 

A VIGIL, long, terrible, nerve-racking. 
A woman's vigil. Had any other woman 
ever spent such an one as this? A vigil for a 
murderer's return — the murderer she herself had sped 
upon his way. Oh, dread task! — due consequence. 
Yet the woman who waited wan and rigid by the barred 
window, through which the night breezes blew so chill, 
was neither faint nor wavering in her purpose. 

A knell was in Lady Macbeth's ears, though no prayer 
for a passing soul left her lips. She had deliberately 
frozen the warmer springs of pity within her heart 
and schooled herself only to think of those grim vows 
which cried for vengeance — the innocent for the guilty. 

She had forced herself to drink wine sufficient to stir 
and inflame her fierce pulses, yet retaining every sense 
stretched on the rack of listening. 

From without, a cry, weird arxp! terrible, resounded. 

Was it a witch's laughter or a shriek of anguish? 

The lady's cheek blanched to a paler hue, but her 
eyes were hard and bright as those of some baleful 
Medusa, setting a chill as of death on all or any who 
might gaze into their depths. 

"Hark!" she whispered, and clutched at the rusty 
bars, peering out into the starless void, then drawing 
back with mocking laughter for her own fears. 

"Peace," she muttered; "it was but the owl that 

(95) 



96 MACBETH 

shrieked — the fatal bellman which gives sternest good- 
night." 

Slowly she moved towards the door. The cry of a 
bird had unnerved her, so that she could only regain 
self-possession by movement — action. 

Unseeing, she passed the spot where trembling Bethoc 
crouched, and so out of sight of the young girl, who 
lay half-swooning in an unnamed fear. 

Had Bethoc followed she would have seen her mother 
pause in the passage which, widening here into a land- 
ing place, showed a flight of some half-dozen stone steps, 
at the head of which were folding doors, fast closed. 

And within? Ah, God — within — what deed of blood 
was being even now enacted? 

"He is about it," thought the woman standing there, 
a shadow amongst shadows out of which her face gleamed 
white and ghost-like, with its ruddy flaming of hair. 

With hands clasped she stood as in an attitude of 
prayer — yet with prayer far from her, all her conscience 
being centered in listening. 

And to what did she listen? A cry? A groan? A 
sobbing breath, which let out a man's soul? A moan 
telling of a horror which seaied deep into a murderer's 
conscience clamoring a loud penitence — too late? 

Or was there only the silence of death who stalked past 
the listener down the steps, along the passages, out 
into the night, carrying the tale of his coming and going 
to shuddering ears. 

The doors swung noiselessly open and a man crept 
forth. A man who peered and muttered, asking who 
was there — near him, but unseen in the darkness. 

A trembling fit seized the woman who watched. Was 
it possible that those drugged sleepers had awaked and 
the deed they thus balked remained undone? 



WEAKNESS AND STRENGTH 97 

If so, this were calamity and disaster indeed! The 
attempt, frustrated in the making, would damn the 
perpetrators with direst ruin. Yet . . . was it pos- 
sible? She herself had been so careful in carrying out 
that fell design — had, indeed, done all but the actual 
deed itself. When she had quitted Duncan's chamber 
an hour since to summon her husband, she had left the 
grooms in a drugged sleep, their daggers ready placed 
for a murderer's hand. Aye, so fierce and deadly her 
purpose that, had not the sleeping king reminded her 
too vividly of the father she had loved so dearly, she 
herself would have used those ready daggers and done 
the deed to which she had egged her husband. 

The man had come out on to the landing now; she 
heard the door close behind him, the soft falling of 
stealthy steps upon the stairs. 

Drawing the lantern forth from the concealing folds 
of her cloak she raised it aloft. 

"My husband!" she breathed. 

Was it indeed her husband? — this man with ghastly 
features twisted and distorted by the horror which he 
himself had stamped upon his own soul. 

There was a wide vacancy in the distended eyes which 
told of a brain numbed by terror. 

With a vague, groping gesture, he held out his hands, 
there was blood upon them, blood upon the daggers 
he still held — blood on his soul for ever. 

No need to ask what had chanced in yonder chamber. 
No need to ask whether it had indeed been death, who 
stalked before-time down those steps and away into the 
blackness beyond. 

The hand that held the lantern shook, so that the 
woman set the latter upon a bracket near — and waited. 

7 



98 MACBETH 

"The deed is done," whispered Macbeth, and the 
words rattled in a dry throat. "Didst thou not hear 
a noise?' He glanced fearfully over his shoulder — but 
the doors were closed. 

His wife shuddered. "I heard the owl scream and 
the crickets cry," he replied with bated breath. "Did 
you not speak?" 

"When?" 

"Now." 

"As I descended?" 

"Aye." 

He thrust his face, so transformed by agony of soul, 
close to her colorless one. "Hark!" he gasped. "Who 
lies in the second chamber?" 

"Donalbain." 

Macbeth held out his hands, regarding them grievously 
as though they were other than his own 

"This is a sorry sight," he mouthed — and there was 
froth upon his beard — a maniacal light in his dark eyes. 

But Gruoch's nerve was returning. The crisis had 
not passed; it needed a woman's wit, a woman's courage, 
a woman's — deviltry — to carry the black deed of that 
night through to a successful issue. 

"A foolish thought," she scoffed, icy in her calm, 
"to say a sorry sight!" 

He did not heed the gibe, but trembled visibly as he 
told his tale. 

"There's one did laugh in his sleep," he whispered, 
staring around, first at the flickering lantern light, then 
at the statuesque figure before him, so calm and seem- 
ingly self-possessed in its callous pride, "and one cried 
1 Murder y — till . . . they woke each other. I stood 
and heard them — but they said their prayers and slept 
again." 



WEAKNESS AND STRENGTH 99 

"There are two lodged together/' said his wife. 

She showed no fear. 

But Macbeth had crept nearer to the lantern, the 
better to see those bloody hands at which he gazed in 
seeming fascination. 

"One cried, 'God bless us 1 — the other said, 'Amen? 
as though they had seen me with these hangman's 
hands. Listening to their fear I could not say 'Amen' 
when they said 'God bless us.' " 

His wife watched him narrowly, seeing how near to 
madness he was, how unnerved by this awful deed 
which set the seal on her revenge and left a clear field 
for the fulfilment of a joint ambition. 

Were both to be rendered void because a man's nerve 
gave way? 

"Consider it not so deeply," she soothed and loath 
though she was, would have rested her white hand 
upon his arm; but he shrank back, pitiful and pleading. 

"But wherefore could I not pronounce amen?" he 
moaned. "I had most need of blessing — and 'amen' 
stuck in my throat." 

Lady Macbeth drew her plaid about her as though 
the night chill had touched her heart — but her voice 
was resolute. 

"These deeds must not be dwelt upon after this 
fashion," she declared. "Else it will make us mad." 

Macbeth paid no heed to her words. He leaned 
against the wall, a man sore spent and exhausted by 
such emotions as drain all strength and leave weak- 
kneed despair behind. 

"Methought I heard a voice cry, 'Sleep no moreV " 
he complained piteously. "Macbeth does murder sleep, 
the innocent sleep. Sleep that knits up the ravelled 



100 MACBETH 

sleeve of care, the death of each day's life, sore labor's 
bath. Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course, 
chief nourished in life's feast." 

So he babbled, uttering great truths with distraught 
mind, whilst his wife — true perpetrator of his deed — 
eyed him aghast, half contemptuous of his weakness. 

"What do you mean?" she asked, and turned to 
look down the dark length of a gloomy passage behind. 
But her husband muttered on: 

"Still it cried, 'Sleep no more/ to all the house. 
Glamis hath murdered sleep, and therefore Cawdor shall 
sleep no more. Macbeth shall sleep no more." 

So earnestly he spoke that his listener felt her heart 
beat in full, deep throbs of fear. Yet she held to her 
task of encouragement, goading him to manhoood by 
her insistent words. 

" Who was it that thus cried?" she demanded. "Why, 
worthy Thane, where will your courage be if you think 
so brainsickly of things? Go, get some water, and wash 
this filthy witness from your hands. Why did you bring 
these daggers from the place? They must lie there. 
Go, carry them back; and smear the sleeping groom 
with blood." 

But at this the half-crazed man drew himself up with 
sudden resolution. 

"I'll go no more," he declared. "I am afraid to 
think what I have done. Look on it again, I dare not." 

His very hair was wet with the sweat of his terror. 

And over him seemed to tower the slender, beautiful 
woman who had inspired him to a purpose which 
appalled him in its execution. 

Her eyes flashed with bright scorn, the color had come 
back to her ashen cheeks, her lips were set in a straight 







'Glamis hath murdered sleep, and therefore Cawdor shall sleep no more." 



WEAKNESS AND STRENGTH 101 

firm line 1 . She knew that it devolved on her now not 
only to save her husband from ruin, but both him and 
herself from death — the death meted to felons as well 
as traitors, regicides as well as murderers. 

With a quick snatch she grabbed the weapons held 
in a limp grasp. 

"Infirm of purpose," she cried passionately. "Give 
me the daggers. The sleeping and the dead are but as 
pictures. 'Tis the eye of childhood that fears a painted 
devil. If he do bleed I'll gild the faces of the grooms 
withal, for it must seem their guilt." 

He let her take the blood-stained trophies of then- 
crime, watching with dull eyes as she stole, panther- 
like, away up the stairs towards those folding doors 
which hid a ghastly sight mirrored upon his soul. 

For a few seconds he stood rigid, listening to the rustle 
of her skirts. Then, suddenly, succeeding silence was 
broken up by a loud knocking at the outer postern. 
The imperative knocking of one who does not fear to 
be importunate. 

Who could the unwelcome and untimely guest be 
who reached the castle ere the gray dawn broke to 
eastward? 

The sound, however, had succeeded where his wife 
had failed, in rousing Macbeth from a fatal lethargy. 
Here was an immediate call for action. A pregnant 
danger, which must be avoided before discovery leapt 
upon them with the inquisitive gaze of all too curious 
eyes. 

"Whence is that knocking?" he muttered. "Ah, 
how is it with me, when every noise appals me?" He 
raised his hands as though to lift down the lantern 
from its niche, but paused, arrested by the sight of 
reddened palms. 



102 MACBETH 

"What hands are here?" he groaned. "Ha! They 
pluck out mine eyes! Will all great Neptune's ocean 
wash this blood clean from my hand? No, no; this 
my hand will rather make bloody every sea that laps 
each distant shore, making the green — one red." 

The whisper rose to an articulate complaint which 
reached the ears of the woman, who already was at his 
side, panting a little but still mistress of herself, clear- 
headed in her thought of how to win salvation from 
suspicion, which should bring death upon them both. 

"My hands are of your color," she scoffed aloud, 
"but I shame to wear a heart so white. List! I hear 
a knocking at the south entry. We must retire at once 
to our chamber. A little water will easily clear us of 
this deed. Hark! More knocking! We must get to 
bed, lest if we are roused, those who come in search 
should find us to have been watchers. Quick — away." 

She caught up the lantern as she spoke and preceded 
her husband down the passage. The knocking at the 
south entry waxed louder, more insistent. The porter 
must have been drowsing. That was well! Time 
enough ere bolts and bars were withdrawn to cleanse 
themselves of these bloodstains, undress and get to bed. 

They were safe enough! None had seen, none had 
heard. None would see or hear — till the daylight showed 
the hideous deed, which none could lay at their door. \ 

If they were betrayed they must be their own betray- 
ers. So thought Lady Macbeth, as she guided her yet 
dazed husband back towards their apartments, nor did 
she dream that the lantern-light, whose flickering yellow 
rays showed them the way down the dark and narrow 
passage, showed them in turn to the terrified gaze of 
the girl, who still cowered watching for her mother's 



WEAKNESS AND STRENGTH 103 

return behind the thick folds of a curtain. A long shiver 
shook Bethoc from head to foot as she spied the faces 
of the two who passed her by, seeing, too, the red stains 
which bedaubed the slender, white hand that held the 
lantern. 

She had meant to ask her mother if any one were 
ill, and whether she could be of service, but, seeing those 
ominous stains and the strained horror on her step- 
father's face, she only shrank back into deeper shadow, 
waiting till they had passed before creeping back to 
her own room, where she spent the remaining hour or so 
before the full coming of day in deep and earnest prayer. 

For she was afraid, poor child, though still she had 
no name for her fears, nor dreamed of the awful tragedy 
which the new day was to bring. 

The new day which slowly dawned in the east — the 
new day that Duncan, King of Scotland, would never 
awake to behold. 



CHAPTER XI 

DEATH MOST TERRIBLE 

ADAM, the porter, snored lustily, choked, gaped, 
rolled back off his low bench almost a-top the 
smouldering fire and opened his eyes. 

For a few seconds he lay where he was, till made 
aware that one of his brogues was singeing. Then, 
drawing in his legs, tailor-wise, he rubbed a scorched 
ankle and fell to complaining of the noise that had 
awaked him. 

" Here's a knocking indeed," he grunted, taking the 
two-handled methir, which stood near, and gulping down 
a draught of the liquor which had promoted his drowsi- 
ness; "if a man were porter of hell-gate, he should 
have old pick turning the key. Knock, knock, knock! 
Who's there i' the name of Beelzebub? Knock, knock. 
Never at quiet. What are you? But this place is too 
cold for hell. I'll devil-porter it no further." 

He scrambled up, muttering and chuckling, half- 
amused at his own wit, half-angry at being disturbed. 

And of a certainty the new-comer was importunate. 
Never for an instant did the summons cease against the 
great wooden door. 

Knock! knock! knock! He who came to Macbeth 's 
castle came with a purpose. 

And the purposeful man must needs be served soon 
or late. 

Adam knew that, though not minded to unduly 

(104) 



DEATH MOST TERRIBLE 105 

hurry his bandy legs as he waddled across the inner 
courtyard, halting near the door with arms akimbo, 
his rubicund face a-crease with smiles — being on the 
right side of that stout wooden partition. 

It pleased him to think that some fine chieftain was 
being kept out in the cold by old Adam the porter, and 
he chuckled as very deliberately he thrust back bolt 
and bar. 

"Anon, anon," he bawled, as the knocking ceased. 
"I pray you, remember the porter." 

They had time to remember him as they stood shiver- 
ing without, watching a gray dawn break over the dis- 
tant horizon; but at length the great wooden door 
swung back, and Adam, lantern in hand, peered out, to 
see who had disturbed his slumbers at so unreasonable 
an hour. 

Two men stood there, both wrapped closely in their 
plaids, for the night ride had been chill. One, the 
slenderer of the twain, was Lennox, mocking-eyed, but 
staunch of soul, who might jest with a friend, but would, 
aye, defend a leal one with his last strength. His com- 
panion was broader of build, taller and bulkier, with 
the strong face of a man born to command, and the 
steadfast gaze of one who may be trusted. A bulwark 
of strength and reliance was Macduff, Thane of Fife, 
to his friends, a threat and danger to his enemies. 

There was something in his very presence which 
commanded confidence or awe, and yet those keen blue 
eyes of his could look very tenderly on women and 
children, and his fair young wife would be ready to 
tell that he was the kindest husband and father that 
could be found in all the world. 

He and Lennox crossed to the fire and stood warming 
chilled hands before the red glow of smouldering logs. 



106 MACBETH 

Adam had re-barred the door and came shuffling 
back towards the visitors, who were both known to 
him as having before journeyed to the castle in com- 
pany with his master. 

Macduff eyed him with a humorous smile. 

"Was it so late, friend," he asked, "ere you went to 
bed, that you He so late?" 

"Faith, sir," retorted Adam slyly, winking from one 
to the other. "We were carousing till the second cock. 
But my argument is just. When a king honors my 
master's castle, my master's servants should not be 
stinting in their toasts. So say I a long life and pros- 
perous to King Duncan, who is the noblest king a poor 
serf may hope to set eyes on in a lifetime. You'll not 
deny me, masters." 

"Nay — a very loyal sentiment," laughed Lennox, 
thrusting a fallen log back to its place. "As for toast- 
ing, I'll admit my own throat is dry. So, whilst we 
await your master ' 

"Who already comes," added Macduff, "aroused, no 
doubt, by our knocking. Good-morrow, noble sir." 

And he strode as he spoke to where on the threshold 
of an open door stood Macbeth himself. The ague of 
terror had left the owner of the castle, and though his 
face was pale, there were no traces of his late disorder 
about him as he advanced to greet these unwelcome 
guests, unless they had looked close enough into the 
shadowed eyes, which still saw bloody tragedy mirrored 
before their gaze. But his wife's reasonings had reached 
the Thane's numbed brain; he knew he must play the 
actor, aye! and meant to play it as those who would 
win success by the deed from which they would fain 
turn averted eyes. 



DEATH MOST TERRIBLE 107 

" Good-morrow, both," quoth he, and held out hands 
washed clean from damning stains. 

"Is the king stirring, worthy Thane?" asked Macduff, 
and being wholly unsuspicious, never noted the faint 
start of guilty nerves. 

"Not yet," replied Macbeth. "Not yet." 

Stirring? Would the king ever stir again? Not 
Duncan at any rate. But Duncan was no longer king. 
Who should be hailed by that title? Why — why — 
he himself! 

The voice of Ilda the witch screeched the promise 
in his ears' 

The promise that was coming true at last. 

The abyss was crossed — he would be climbing the 
heights soon. 

Ambition's clarion voice was sounding — that of re- 
morse was not awakened yet. 

"He commanded me to call early upon him," resumed 
Macduff. "I had almost slipped the hour." 

Macbeth rallied himself — it would soon be over — 
and the horror of his deed was already passing from 
his soul. King. King. Ah, that was the title he had 
dreamed of, coveted, plotted and planned for, since the 
momentous meeting with the weird sisters on the Hard 
Moor. The title . . . he . . . had murdered ... to 
obtain. 

"I'll bring you to him," he replied, with wonderful 
self-control. 

"I know this is a joyful trouble to you," apologized 
Macduff, with pleasant friendliness; "but yet I fear it 
is one." 

"A labor to be delighted in," smiled his pale host. 
"This is the door." 



108 MACBETH 

Daylight was brightening now, yet the passage and 
landing without Duncan's rooms were gray in shadow. 
Macduff had thrown wide the folding doors and passed 
within, after some further apology for such undue haste 
in presenting himself. 

But it had been the king's desire — and the simple- 
hearted Thane found that sufficient excuse for such 
importunate rousing. 

Lennox followed Macbeth to an adjacent room. 

"Goes the king from hence today?" asked the younger 
man, finding his host strangely silent and morose. 

"He does — he did appoint so," replied Macbeth, and 
walked towards the window, looking out over the marshy 
plain. 

It was purgatory to stand thus — awaiting the cry 
which would presently rouse the castle to hear the 
startling and appalling news that red-handed murder 
had stalked at night through those dim passages, to 
pause and pass within those doors which should have 
better sheltered one it had been their duty and loving 
desire to protect with their own life's blood. 

"The night has been unruly," observed Lennox, 
approaching nearer to where his host stood so gloomily 
silent. " Where we lay, our chimneys were blown down, 
and, as they say, lamentings heard in the air; strange 
screams of death; and prophesying with accents terrible 
of dire woe and tragedy to come swift on the heels of 
time. The death bird clamored the livelong night, and 
some say that earthquake was to be felt." 

Macbeth surveyed the speaker with somber eyes. 
Had he heard the young man's words, or was he only 
listening still for the sudden turmoil which should tell 
of discovery? 



DEATH MOST TERRIBLE 109 

He roused himself with an effort, knowing this to be 
but the apathy of a transition state. When need arose 
he would be ready. Now. 

"It was a rough night," replied he. 

"I cannot recall one like it in all my remembrance," 
said Lennox. 

And then, as he ceased speaking, stirring his thoughts 
to lure so mean a companion into conversation, came 
the sounds for which Macbeth had been waiting. From 
the direction of the king's apartments came a cry — a 
cry of horror, dismay, rage. 

Such a cry as foretells no small tragedy, but some 
woeful event that may shake a kingdom to its founda- 
tions. 

A cry which Bethoc, kneeling in prayer before a wooden 
crucifix, heard shuddering, knowing that somehow, 
somewhere, the wan ghosts of a troubled night were, 
with the new day, putting on strange and terrible shapes 
of reality. And, because she feared to think what those 
shapes would be, she fell to more earnest prayer — for 
Malcolm, and their love. A cry which Lady Macbeth 
heard as she lay upon her couch, and, hearing it, rose, 
hastily beginning to don the robes so lately discarded. 

The crisis was here — and she feared to trust her hus- 
band too long alone. 

Need she have feared? Perhaps not, for with that 
cry Macbeth's apathy seemed to slip from him like a 
cast cloak. So the hare hears the hounds give tongue 
as she crouches in her lair, and quivers through every 
fiber of her being in desire to escape. 
. The hounds upon a track! 

Nay, not so, since no track was there to be found. 
Thus courage and the need for bold play came to aid a 
desperate man at such a crisis. 



110 MACBETH 

Macbeth had reached the threshold as Macduff came 
rushing headlong down the passage. 

The latter's face was blanched in a fixed expression of 
such dismay as has seen death meet his unexpected 
gaze — his whole bearing that of a man distraught. 

Scarcely checking himself, he reeled against the wall, 
covering his eyes with his hands. 

"Oh, horror," he groaned, "horror, horror — tongue 
nor heart cannot conceive nor name thee." 

He was a strong man, fearless and disciplined in 
nature, yet as he huddled against the wall in that pas- 
sage, to which a gray dawn had barely penetrated, he 
sobbed and trembled like a frightened child. 

"What is the matter?" cried Macbeth, in well-feigned 
bewilderment, whilst Lennox, more genuinely perplexed, 
echoed the words. 

"Murder," groaned Macduff. "Death most terrible, 
the image of death within yon room — stamped upon the 
features of one whose life we all did cherish as our own." 

Macbeth stared at the speaker, his own apathy had 
entirely gone, though he did not seem to know this new 
personality which he put on with apparent ease. A 
personality in which it would be easy to play the part 
to save his life. 

His life! Thoughts of the future in which that life 
should be passed pricked him to his purpose, whilst in 
gaping wonder he eyed the weeping and dismayed 
Macduff. 

"What ... is it you say?" he faltered. 

"Mean you — his majesty?" whispered awe-stricken 
Lennox. Macduff stretched forth a shaking hand, 
pointing towards the open folding doors. 

"See for yourselves," he muttered. "Do not bid me 



DEATH MOST TERRIBLE 111 

speak. Approach the chamber and grow cold in numb- 
ing horror, as I have done." 

A swooning fit was on him; inert he lay there watch- 
ing the two who hurried away in fevered haste to read 
the riddle but half unsolved. 

Then, as Macbeth and Lennox passed out of sight, 
strength seemed to return to the stricken Macduff. 

"Ring the alarm bell/' he cried, rousing himself to 
go struggling down the passage, shouting in husky, 
stentorian tones: 

"Murder! and treason! Banquo and Donalbain! 
Malcolm! Awake! Malcolm! Banquo!" 

Like a blind man, groping, he stumbled on, not know- 
ing whither he went in that maze of passages, till pres- 
ently, meeting none nor hearing answer to his cries, 
since those he called were lodged at some distance from 
this spot, he returned to where a flight of stone steps 
led up to folding doors. And at the foot of the steps 
a woman stood. A queenly, handsome woman, beauti- 
ful still, though the years of girlhood had long fled, 
and sorrow had stamped her lovely face — sorrow that 
was imaged there now as she came forward, appealing 
to the pale Thane with anxious fear in her clear tones. 

"What is the business?" she asked, as Macduff, 
gentle ever to all women if but for sake of his own 
Marjory — took her cold hands in his. "What are these 
cries that rouse all sleepers? Oh, speak! Tell me the 
truth! Speak! Speak!" 

How she shook and trembled, roused no doubt from 
sleep to find an unnamed terror haunting her home. 

"Oh, gentle lady," murmured Macduff, tears stream- 
ing down his rugged face. "It is not for you to hear 
what I can speak. Return to your room, when later 
your lord himself " 



112 MACBETH 

He was interrupted by the appearance of Banquo, 
who, having heard the woeful cries, had hastened to 
hear their fuller meaning 

He was shaking as in an ague as he raised his hands 
aloft, seeing Macduff. 

"What did I hear?" he stammered. "Our royal 
master murdered?" 

A shriek from Lady Macbeth echoed the words: 

"Murdered," she clamored, clutching at Macduff's 
plaid. "No, no. Ah, woe, woe! Not here in our 
house?" 

"The deed were no less cruel anywhere, moaned 
Banquo. "Dear Duff, I pray thee contradict thyself 
and say it is not so?" 

But the Thane of Fife answered only by the deep- 
drawn sobs which seemed to rend his very manhood 
and leave him weak and exhausted as any part-drowned 
mariner who lies within the reach of ocean waves, 
scarcely escaped their fury. 

Thus the three stood, the woman apparently bereft 
of consciousness as she clung against the wall, her 
unbound and disordered tresses loose over her shoulders 
like some flaming mantle, whilst Banquo, no less stunned, 
stood there, and against his will saw in mental vision 
a blasted heath over which storm clouds still hung 
ominously; whilst below where he stood could be seen 
a woman's form, wreathed round in mists from which 
a face looked out, mocking, terrible, a blood-red band 
about her throat — the devil's own image within her eyes, 
as she cried, — not to him but to another, "All hail, 
Macbeth, thai shall be king hereafter." 

And now Duncan was dead. Lying yonder, a mur- 
dered man in the castle of him whom Banquo had called 
friend no later than last night. 



DEATH MOST TERRIBLE 113 

Two men came out from behind the folding doors. 
They both reeled as they descended the steps, reeled as 
men drunk with wine — but in reality dazed by the 
awful horror of a sight on which they had lately looked. 

Lady Macbeth did not move at sight of her husband, 
but stood there, her arms outspread, almost as though 
she were nailed crucified to the wall. 

A ray of morning sunlight tinged the red glory of 
her hair. Macbeth, looking up for an instant, saw in 
her a flaming vision of doom, and he hid his eyes in his 
plaid — afraid to look, lest love and ambition should 
betray him in a crucial hour. 

"Had I but died before this chance," he groaned. 
"Oh, woe indeed! My heart and voice are so choked 
with tears for this calamity. I have no utterance." 

How well he acted! Even the suspicions of Banquo 
were for the time allayed. Macbeth's haggard face and 
grief-stricken mien told of an honest sorrow, and could 
not be the mirror which showed a murderer. 

Macbeth himself grew confident. He had been afraid 
at first, but fear had gone after looking into Banquo's 
eyes and reading no accusation there. His wife had 
been right. No one could trace that murderous deed 
to its true doers. All would be well. Thus, in the 
meantime, he acted as those act who assure themselves 
of success and great reward accruing to it. 

And a chance word spoken by Lennox as they stooped 
over the couch of a murdered king had given him a hint 
of what might well serve a double purpose. 

"The Prince of Cumberland," the young noble had 
observed bitterly, "hath not had long to wait to climb 
to higher honor." 

The Prince of Cumoerland. Why! that was Malcolm. 

8 



114 MACBETH 

Malcolm, his father's heir, Malcolm, scarce more than 
a youth, to rear a handsome head between Macbeth 
and his ambition. Malcolm! 

As if in response to an unuttered call, the young 
prince came hurrying into sight accompanied by his 
brother. Goodly youths both, with astalwart manhood 
embryo in the elder which Macbeth noted for the first 
time. 

"What is amiss?" asked Donalbain, resting his hand 
on his brother's shoulder as the two faced the gathered 
throng at the foot of the steps. 

Macbeth frowned gloomily, his regard fixed on Mal- 
colm, who stood there, pale but self-possessed — more 
puzzled than alarmed. 

"What?" he asked significantly. "You do not 
know?" 

Question for question, but both Lennox and Banquo 
started as they listened to the second. 

It was Macduff who explained, too pitying to break 
such news in roundabout phrase. 

"Your royal father is murdered," said he — abrupt 
yet tender at sight of the stricken horror on the young 
men's faces. 

Murdered! 

And he, that father, such a parent as few sons had 
ever been blessed with. 

Strong love had knit those close bonds of kinship, 
so that honor and reverence, as well as love itself, had 
made Duncan's sons his most loyal and devoted sub- 
jects too. Murdered! 

What a knell to ring on bright hopes, sweet dreams, 
all the irresponsible joy of youth, drained in a single 
word. 



DEATH MOST TERRIBLE 115 

Murdered! And at the sound a cord seemed snapped 
in young Malcolm's heart, transforming him from the 
happy boy to a stern and sorrowful man. 

How could he answer such news as this? Surely not 
as Donalbain was doing, by bitter tears and lamentable 
outcry. Donalbain was but a lad still — his own younger 
brother. It was for him, Malcolm, to play a man's part 
in this fearful tragedy which struck at his own heart. 
For an instant he thought of Bethoc and all this day 
was to have been to him of love and sunshine. 

Oh, God! What mockery it was that there could 
be sunshine still. 

The world should have been gray today. Nay, 
black! Black as the pit in which so infernal a deed 
had been conceived and wrought, black as the night 
that had descended upon a beloved parent in the strong 
prime of manhood. 

Dead! Oh, no, no, he could not believe that. 

Only a few hours since he had felt the girding of his 
father's tender arms, heard his good-night blessing, seen 
him stand, a mighty oak tree, strong and lusty, to 
weather full many a wild storm of life. 

Murdered! No, no, this thing could not be. 

As through a mist, faces were turned towards him, 
pitying, wondering, suspicious, stern, and, more clear 
than all, a woman's face, framed by the flaming mantle 
of her hair as she lay back against the wall. 

And there was that in the woman's eyes which made 
Malcolm Canmore understand this thing was true. 

His father had been murdered. 

He raised his clenched hand aloft as one who mutely 
registers a vow in Heaven, whilst in hoarse tones he 
asked his question. 



116 MACBETH 

"By whom? Who has done this deed?" 

Was it chance which showed him the Thane of Caw- 
dor's eyes, sinister and mocking? 

It was Lennox who answered. Lennox, the prince's 
friend, who tried to tell the tale his own tears stemmed. 

"The grooms of his chamber, as it seemed, had done 
it," he faltered, "their hands and faces were all smeared 
with blood; so were their daggers, which, unwiped, we 
found upon their pillows. They stared at us in strange 
distraction. No man's life was to be trusted with them." 

Macbeth wrung his hands. 

"Oh, yet I do repent me of my fury, that I did kill 
them," he made lament. 

Macduff started, eyeing the speaker askance in grave 
censure. 

"You killed them?" he echoed, "before you spoke, 
asking them the reason for their bloody deed? Killed 
them before they could confess the meaning of so black 
a murder?" 

If there was no actual accusation in such questions 
there was undoubted reproach, whilst before Banquo's 
eyes rose again the vision of a blasted heath and the 
echo of Ilda, the witch's words rang in his ears. 

Macbeth, however, waxed eloquent in making excuse 
for a faulty deed. 

"Who can be wise, amazed, temperate and furious, 
loyal and neutral, in a moment?" he asked scornfully. 
"It were a task beyond the control of man. My love 
and grief out-balanced reason. I confess it, friends, 
but would you blame me? Oh, I do not think so had 
you stood, as Lennox here, beside me in that woeful 
room and seen our noble Duncan lying there gashed and 
bleeding in terrible death, whilst his murderers, stained 



DEATH MOST TERRIBLE 117 

by the colors of their trade, their daggers still dripping 
in their hands, crouched beside him. A fury was upon 
me at that sight. My love for Duncan was so deep, 
so true, that without argument or pause I stabbed those 
murderers to the heart, remembering only what those 
hearts had conceived, what those hands had done." 

Could any doubt such argument? Could any cry, 
"liar and traitor, be damned in your own deed?" 

It was impossible. 

Eloquence had won — for the moment. 

Looking at their haggard host as he stood facing them 
on the steps above, none of the men who loved Duncan 
could believe that passionate outcry false. 

But what of the woman who had come to strengthen 
a weak-kneed waverer. 

Was this husband who lied so glibly, who declaimed 
so falsely and who acted so splendidly, the same man 
who had mouthed and whimpered because his hands 
were blood-stained? 

It was as if her own fierce spirit had been transmitted 
to this her lord. And being no longer called to aid one 
who could so well be trusted to stand alone in defence 
of a terrible secret, Gruoch yielded to the call of her 
woman's weakness and allowed reaction from that ghastly 
strain to seize and enfold her in its cold embrace. 

"Help me hence," she moaned, "help me hence." 
And she would have slipped fainting to the ground 
had not her women, who, with crowding courtiers and 
servants, blocked the passage, agape to hear the tale 
of such tragic happenings, pushed forward, and, lifting 
her in their arms, carried her away. Meantime, Mac- 
beth, after watching his wife out of sight, turned in 
grave and mournful dignity to the surrounding chieftains. 



118 MACBETH 

"Come," said he, "let us to the hall, there to meet 
and confer in council as to what is best done. There 
is much to learn, and still more to teach, if we would 
save the kingdom from such discord as will be beyond 
our power to quell. A deed has been wrought here in 
my castle which shall shake all Scotland with a grief 
impossible to assuage. And since my honor is at stake, 
even above your own, my lords, it behooves me to 
search out with greater diligence the secret of this plot, 
of which yonder dead grooms were but the sorry tools. 
This murder goes deep into our honor. We must search 
it out — and seek in all things Scotland's future welfare." 

And, as he spoke, he looked again towards Malcolm, 
the late king's son. 



D 



CHAPTER XII 

THE GOAL OF DESIRE 

H 1P\ONALBAIN is fled?" 

Malcolm's tones were incredulous as he 
looked to where Bethoc stood, a cowering 
little figure, bowed down by the tempest of her grief. 

And she mourned for him. Aye, of course it was so. 
The young prince knew that well enough, since Bethoc 
had not known the king whose tragic death had so dried 
up the fount of youthful joy in his son's heart. 

And now wliat was it this girl was saying? His 
brother fled? But wherefore? Fled? They only flee 
who do some wrong. Donalbain had done no wrong. 

"To Ireland," said Bethoc. She did not weep now. 
It had been hours ago that tears had overwhelmed her; 
now, though spent by grief, she was calm. A woman's 
calm in response to a call, a need for action. 

Later she would perhaps dare to explore the haunted 
chambers of her memory and strive to drive forth those 
ghosts whose suspected presence made her heart faint 
within her; but now she must not think of past but 
present. 

A present in which Malcolm was in danger. 

"Yes, yes," she continued feverishly, clasping her 
small hands very fast together, "he has fled to Ireland. 
Friends have gone with him. I ... I sped them on 
their way. You, I could not find. Oh, how I have 
searched . . . but you I could not find." 

(119) 



120 MACBETH 

He moved towards her, but did not attempt to touch 
her. He must not think of love today. 

Had he not been keeping vigil by a murdered father's 
side, whispering youth's hot, earnest vows into dead 
ears? Oh, the tempest of his soul! How it had lashed 
and tossed him with turbulent emotion, so that he could 
at one time have rushed forth from that room sword in 
hand smiting and slashing at all he met, killing all in 
hope of slaying thus a bloody murderer. 

"Why should you have searched for me?" he asked 
presently, seeing Bethoc wan before him, her blue eyes 
rimmed round by swollen and discolored lids. "And 
wherefore speeds my brother hence?" 

Bethoc shivered, but her gaze met his very resolutely. 

"I had heard it said," she answered, "that you and 
Donalbain should be accused of conspiring against 
your father's life. There . . . there are those even now 
in council together who hail you as his murderers." 

Malcolm stood aghast. This second blow was, if 
possible, more terrific than the first. 

His father's murderer! 

He began to understand — only dimly at first. 

Those were reckless, fierce days, when only too often 
might was right. He and his brother were but youths. 
The love that had been given to their father they had 
had no opportunity as yet to win, and last night's deed 
was not yet unraveled. 

"You must go," cried Bethoc, facing him, white- 
cheeked, her blue eyes wide in horror, yet passionate 
too, as those of a woman defending the one she loves 
against the foes who teem around him. "Those who 
struck down a father will not spare you. So Donalbain 
understood. He has gone. You too must go — at once." 



THE GOAL OF DESIRE 121 

Malcolm laughed — a bitter laugh, from which all joy 
had fled. 

"Go?" he scoffed. "Not I! I am my father's heir 
to whom he has legacied the task of vengeance. I will 
fulfil it." 

She still faced him, white and passionate. 

"You cannot find revenge in all Scotland," she replied. 
"You are alone. They will kill you if you stay. And 
I — oh! merciful saints, why do I not die too? Have any 
suffered as I am doing? The whole world was paradise 
yesterday — now it is hell. Yet not hell, since love 
remains. By my love, Malcolm, I bid you flee. I . . . 
bid you." 

She caught him by the sleeve, drew herself towards 
him, forgetting maidenly reserve in the abandon of her 
grief and pleading. 

Was she not her mother's daughter, passionate, force- 
ful? And now her eloquence came in gasping sentences 
as she clung to the man who stood unresponsive as though 
turned to stone at sight of those Medusa-like eyes of 
tragedy. Not Bethoc's eyes, tear-filled, piteous. But 
the eyes of fate, pointing down at a father's corpse. 

In vain Bethoc pleaded, touching his cold cheek with 
her burning lips, as she claimed his obedience to her 
command in the name of love. A dead name today 
for Duncan's son. 

Yet where love failed, a calmer counselor prevailed. 

It was to Banquo, who had entered, unseen by Mal- 
colm at first, to whom Bethoc turned at last, imploring 
him to add his prayers to hers, since, quoth she, very 
piteously. "If the prince stays — he dies as surely as a 
king died under this roof last night." 

And Banquo, with one arm about her, turned to Mai- 



122 MACBETH 

colm. "The child speaks truly," said he, "and you 
must ride with me this very hour, prince. To England 
you should go if you were wise. There's safety with 
King Edward, England's saintly king." 

"What?" cried Malcolm in amaze. "You counsel 
flight? I cannot believe it, noble Banquo." 

"Yet you shall believe it," replied the elder man 
quietly. "As that I am your friend and loyal servant, 
prince, such as your father called me. It is my loyalty 
which, beating with every pulsation of my heart, clamors 
with the same insistence as this poor maid who, if I 
mistake not, loves you." 

Malcolm looked from one to the other. 

That these two loved him he could have no doubt. 
Yet what strange counsel did they give? 

"Listen," went on Banquo, "to the most difficult 
news that I could school my tongue to utter. In yonder 
council chamber the lords and chieftains of this fair 
realm talk together. Some tale — a whisper first gen- 
dered none know whence — has got abroad that you and 
Donalbain have conceived and executed this bloody 
plot, and argument hath been used to prove it. So, 
whilst men look askance, whispering the horror of such 
a story, others have named the Thane of Cawdor as 
king in succession. An honor he ... is willing to 
accept." 

Silence. A long silence, tense with the crowding 
emotions of human souls set on racks of pain. 

To each a separate suffering, since each saw with 
separate vision the story of such deeds. 

"To flee," muttered Malcolm — but there was irresolu- 
tion now in his tones. "To flee hence to England — 
and alone? " 



THE GOAL OF DESIRE 123 

"We shall ride together, my liege," quoth Banquo 
softly, as he held out his hand, "and, if Heaven wills, 
return together when traitors, discovered at last, have 
gone to their own place. Be advised. You are not 
strong enough to break those whose ambition would 
break you, mar you, thrust you out of life on any pretext. 
Thus, to win, you yield. To fight, you flee. To avenge, 
you suffer wrong to go unchallenged. Do not you under- 
stand? To save your life you 'scape with me to England, 
so that when the time is ripe and you are grown to fuller 
manhood, you can devote that life to searching out and 
destroying those who have so villainously murdered your 
noble father." Malcolm bowed his head. 

Unwelcome though the counsel was he saw now that 
it was the only possible one to follow. 

What Bethoc's love had failed to accomplish, the 
hunger for revenge and the grave advice of this well- 
proved friend had won. 

He would flee with Banquo, knowing how dear a place 
Banquo had held in the king's love. He would flee — 
but none would ever know how hard a task that was. 
To. play the coward so that he might live to act the hero. 
Was this worthy the son of Duncan? 

With bent head and faltering step the young man 
quitted the room, with neither farewell look nor glance 
for the girl who stood weeping in the shadows. 

And in the same hour when Malcolm Canmore quitted 
the castle of Inverness, Lady Macbeth was awaiting the 
return of her husband from the council chamber. 

There was a wandering fire in the lady's eyes, as she 
paced restlessly to and fro, starting at every faintest 
sound from the outer chamber. She had refused to allow 
her little son to come near her — and Bethoc had not 



124 MACBETH 

attempted to enter her mother's presence. There had 
been excuse enough for the indisposition the mistress of 
the castle pleaded. The tragic event of the night had 
been enough to fever any sensitive woman's nerves. And 
in truth the fever seemed to run high. How bright were 
her eyes! How deep a carmine the patches of color 
on her cheeks; her hands were clasped and unclasped 
as thought ran riot in her brain. 

But yesterday Duncan himself had been arriving at 
this hour. She had stood in the hall to greet him, and 
momentarily felt her sinister purpose weaken as she saw 
the goodly favor of the king's person, the kindness of 
his mild blue eyes, the story of high honor to be heaped 
upon her husband's house. He had been so gracious in 
his gratitude for her hospitality, so gallant in his homage 
to her beauty. And yet — she had slain him! 

Yes, Macbeth might have struck down his deadly 
thrust into defenceless flesh — but hers had been the guid- 
ing fingers on the weapon. 

But it was not of Duncan or his death that she must 
think. Let the dead past go, whilst she turned eager 
eyes to where a future blazed with glory. 

"All hail, Macbeth, that shalt be king hereafter" 

The prophecy should be fulfilled. Aye! — thus high 
should he, her husband, climb with her beside him. 
A queen! Stately she stood, trying to smile, to find 
delight in so fair a title. What desire could remain 
when she was queen? 

And after Macbeth, Lulach, her son. Yes, her pulses 
stirred there. 

Lulach, her son. Gilcomgain's son. Gilcomgain, 
husband of her youth, her love, her desire. Well, it was 
good to think that other cries had echoed her dear love's 



THE GOAL OF DESIRE 125 

dying moans. Had Malcolm the king spared the man 
who was his enemy? Had he spared any? No, neither 
father, brother, husband. So last night's deed was but 
justice after all. 

Gilcomgain's pale ghost could no longer cry down the 
wind, "Avenge, avenge." The seed of Malcolm the 
king had been destroyed. Duncan was dead, and if, 
in their first thirst after vengeance on the bloody deed, 
Malcolm and Donalbain were slain too — her cup of 
rejoicing would be full. 

Yet it was very wearily that she who planned these 
things sank into a chair. Her heart grew faint thinking 
of the coming night. 

Would she hear the owl hoot as yesternight? Would 
the sound as of witch's laughter haunt her ears? Avaunt ! 
Was she not waiting to hear the news which Macbeth 
would be bringing? Macbeth, the husband who adored 
her, was swayed by her, was ready to serve her even 
to the selling of his soul, yet whose whole body she did 
not as truly love as dearly as she had loved one of Gil- 
comgain's little fingers. And yet Gilcomgain had 
brought her bitter woe and suffering, whilst Macbeth 
would make her a queen — his queen — Scotland's queen. 
As if in echo to such thoughts the door of her room was 
flung open and Macbeth himself stood flushed and 
triumphant upon the threshold. All shadow of fear, 
of remorse or guilty dread had fled from his face. He 
stood there a conqueror, on the summit of his ambition, 
with arms outstretched towards the woman for whom he 
had gone down into the filthy abyss of sin and death to 
win it — withal to crown her. 

"We ride to Scone within the hour, dear love," said 
he; "there I shall be crowned king as all the fates decreed. 
The king." 



126 MACBETH 

She echoed the last word with him. 

" The king!" 

Had they not reached the goal of their desire? 



CHAPTER XIII 



A SECRET MEETING 



B' 



U TT% ETHOC— farewell." 

So he had returned to speak those two 
words. Returned to lift a black despair 
from a young girl's heart. To give her hope, even 
though that hope were placed in the midst of lurid 
surroundings. 

It was a little bare-legged fisher lad who had brought 
the message first to Macduff — that melancholy Thane 
who had listened with heavy heart to all the talk of those 
in council, himself as silent as any funeral mute. 

Had Macduff, instead of the more cautious Banquo, 
been councillor, Malcolm and Donalbain had scarcely 
fled, but when the Thane heard the intention of the 
latter it was already accomplished. 

And now Macbeth was on his way to Scone, King 
Duncan's body had been carried to Colme's Hill, and 
Macduff left to mourn as one whose breath has been 
snatched away by too much haste. 

What was left after this dizzy turmoil of events? 
Duncan the king murdered, his sons fled, Macbeth named 
as successor to the Scottish throne. 

Yet one of the items seemed to be incomplete. Mal- 
colm had not yet left the Scottish shores, though he 
remained in hiding, since assuredly many enemies would 
be swift to his scotching and slaying were his place of 
concealment known. The little fisher lad told his mes- 

(127) 



128 MACBETH 

sage cannily — and it was for Macduff to take it to the 
Lady Bethoc — stepdaughter to the new king. How 
fast events ran on. The new king! . . . And he who 
had been king last week not yet laid to rest. 

But Macduff had brought the message to Bethoc 
because he had still enough of the fire of youth in his 
veins to remember love's young dream. And oh, but 
the Lady Marjory, his own sweet wife, was fair! Fairer 
than this black-haired, blue-eyed child, with her pale 
face, and red lips that quivered in sudden passion when 
he told her Malcolm would not flee to safety till he had 
bidden her farewell. In these days neither Bethoc 
nor Lulach saw anything of their mother, and it would 
have been easy for the former to have slipped away 
from the castle had it not been for her little brother. 
But Lulach, usually a high-spirited, gallant child, had 
become nervous and fretful of late. He was afraid that 
the wicked people who had murdered the king might 
creep at midnight into his own room. So more than 
once he stole to seek the comfort of his sister's arms at 
night, whilst by day he became her very shadow. 

Yet she escaped from him at last — her wit sharpened 
by eager desire. 

Why, how strange! The sun was shining again 
today. She was going to see Malcolm. Malcolm, 
who had not forgotten her after all in his precipitate 
flight. 

Thus, in time, Macduff, staunch in his faith to Dun- 
can's son and with no love to spare for the usurper, who 
should be presently crowned at Scone, brought Bethoc 
to Malcolm's hiding-place, whilst he and Banquo walked 
apart leaving the lovers to their sad farewell. 

Was it altogether sad? Not to Bethoc, as she felt 



A SECRET MEETING 129 

strong arms about her and hid her flushing face against 
a lover's breast. 

She had thought his dream of love had been as the 
passing mists of dawn — leaving naught behind. She 
had told herself he had forgotten her now sorrow had 
transformed him to a man — and though she wept she 
had said that this was best since she still dared not 
look into the haunted shadows of her memory. 

And now it was to be farewell between a man and 
maid whose tale of love had been but the briefest. 

As in a dream Bethoc felt Malcolm's arms about her, 
saw his handsome head bent to the level of her own, 
felt his kisses on her lips. 

His kisses! She awoke then to life, and the tragedy, 
which was not all tragedy, since Malcolm still loved her. 

"I love thee," she reiterated. "I love thee!" 

What other words had she to give to go with him 
into exile. 

And oh! the vibrant passion of each syllable as she 
clung to this lover of hers, quivering in her agony of 
voiceless grief. 

But despair was conquered by that appeal which 
a woman is so attuned to hear in a man's silence. 

Malcolm needed her — she responded to his need and 
smiled into the young man's anguished face, knowing 
that this farewell of theirs was to him more than fare- 
well of man to maid, but also that of an heir to his 
kingdom — a patriot to his native shores. 

"I shall await in a better hour for my king's return," 
was Bethoc's last whisper, and showed the promised joy 
of welcome in the eyes which would fain have been 
drowned in tears. 

So, with brave lips she cheered him, whilst her own 



130 MACBETH 

heart ached almost to breaking, and she smiled with 
courage truly heroic as she watched him and his com- 
rade gaze shorewards from the fast vanishing boat, till 
the mists of twilight hid them from each other. 

He had gone! No need to smile now, and there were 
tears in the eyes of the kindly Thane of Fife himself 
as he led the weeping girl back towards her home. 

Malcolm had gone! What and who remained — for 
Scotland? 

The man's face was grim as he asked himself the 
question. 

And Bethoc, asking no questions nor answering any, 
wept, because not only Scotland but all the world was 
empty — now that her lover had left her side. 

Macduff parted from his young companion at the 
foot of the brae, within sight of the castle. He was 
riding home at once, not minded to follow the lead of 
other chiefs on the road to Scone. But his hand-clasp 
was one of friendship for this young girl, who herself 
was loyal amongst kin whom Macduff doubted. Aye, 
doubted as Banquo had done, though doubt was no 
clear certainty of thought. 

It startled Bethoc when her little brother came to 
her an hour later, his clothes muddy and wet sand 
clinging to his brogues. 

"Why did you not wait?" he complained fretfully. 
"I ... I lost my way — and might have been drowned 
in the dreadful morass. Why did not you and the 
Thane of Fife await me when I called?" 

He was cold and frightened, poor child, and therefore 
querulous, otherwise he had never quarreled with his 
dear Bethoc. And she, poor girl, was startled too, 
since she had made sure of having accomplished her 
journey unseen by any spy. 



A SECRET MEETING 131 

How she wished Lulach had not recognized the com- 
panion who had risked something in this trysting. 

But worse was to follow, since Lulach's vexation grew 
to anger as she hesitated, thinking ere she replied. 

"See," he said, "there is our lady mother upon the 
stairs. I shall go and tell her. Yes, I shall tell her how 
you and the Thane of Fife went far a-down along the 
shore and met with him whom they called Prince of 
Cumberland, who had to run away because he killed 
his own father." 

In vain Bethoc strove to check the fatal words, in 
vain tried to soothe and coax the spoilt boy, who burst 
from her detaining grasp and ran towards his mother, 
who was passing along an upper gallery. 

But Bethoc did not wait to hear the denunciation or 
the summons which should call her to account. Fearful 
of what storm Lulach's tale-bearing might evoke she 
fled to her own room, to hide, if possible, till her mother's 
anger should have passed. 

The long minutes dragged by leaden-footed, since 
in each the girl trembled, sure she must soon hear the 
messenger who should call her to account. But the 
minutes lengthened into hours, bringing the shrouding 
of night, and no one approached Bethoc's sanctuary. 

How strange it was! Had Lulach merely threatened 
and failed to fulfil? Yes, that must be it. Lulach, 
who loved her, had not carried this tale of a secret 
meeting to one who might condemn his sister. 

On the morrow, Bethoc, sure of such repentance, 
sought her brother, and, kissing him very lovingly, 
thanked him for his silence. 

But Lulach, though restored to love and good-humor 
this morning, was honest too. 



132 MACBETH 

"I did tell our lady mother," he confessed penitently; 
"but I wish I had not — for she only promised me a 
whipping if ever again I mentioned Prince Malcolm's 
name. I think, Bethoc, she . . . our mother ... is 
afraid of the Prince of Cumberland, for she turned 
quite white when I spoke of him and the Thane of Fife. 
Is it because she knows him to be a very wicked man, 
who murdered his own father?" 

"Prince Malcolm never murdered King Duncan," 
cried Bethoc passionately; "they lie who say so. I 
know he was innocent of such a deed." 

"Hush," whispered Lulach, clinging to her skirts. 
"Hush, or ... or I may be whipped. See — it is our 
mother." 

Bethoc raised her head, and looking towards where 
a heavy curtain had been drawn aside, saw her mother 
standing there watching them. 

She must have heard Bethoc's words — and the gin 
noted that all color was drained from the elder woman's 
cheeks. 

Then their eyes met. 

It was Bethoc who turned away first — shuddering as 
at something evil. 



CHAPTER XIV 

BETHOC GIVES WARNING 

A UTUMN winds blowing across the Hard Moor — 
j\ autumn winds stirring through the forest around 
Forres, bringing sear and yellow leaves fluttering 
to the ground, Nature's pall for the coming death of 
the year — autumn winds singing lullaby as they swept 
up the glen and across the peaceful streamlet of the 
Mosset burn, where a young girl stood, shining-eyed, 
gazing around at the gorgeous panoply of the woods, 
with their rare tinting of gold, orange, crimson, and 
brown, with dark, sombre green where the straight 
stem of a pine tree showed between oak and beech, 
chestnut and wild cherry. 

"It was here," thought Bethoc to herself, "that Mal- 
colm told me he stood — and dreamed of me, when the 
moonlight lay pale on the Mosset burn. It was here 
he hunted, winding his horn merrily, merrily, in a gay 
springtide, as he chased the gray boar to its death; it 
was here that he spent so many happy hours of boy- 
hood, fishing, swimming, climbing. Ah! — I am glad to 
be here — where he was once so happy." 

She was striving busily to put herself back into those 
old happy days, gone for evermore with their gaiety 
and irresponsible lightheartedness. 

Gone — gone — and autumn leaves fell drearily for all 
the dreaming that she tried to make sweet. 

So, to encourage fair memory, she seated herself on 

(133) 



134 MACBETH 

a gnarled tree-stump and set to singing in low, croon- 
ing tones, a love song which Malcolm had sung in 
upward lilting notes that went rollicking through her 
memory. 

The quaint crooning of words and tune made lullaby 
with wind and water — a lullaby; but there were tears 
in Bethoc's eyes ere she had finished — for the music of 
the winds made requiem for a dead past. 

Death! Ah, woe! — how sadly had that grim spectre 
touched her life. 

Yet Malcolm lived. Would he ever return to Forres? 
To the home of his childhood? 

Ah! — did not a usurper sit on her lover's throne? 
Macbeth was king of Scotland. Duncan's sons were 
exiles. 

A crackling of dry twigs, the scattering ot newly 
fallen leaves, and a man came striding out into the 
glen, a slim little lad beside him. 

Oh, but the wailing voices were hushed now, and 
Bethoc's cheeks aflame in welcoming joy as she held 
out her hands to Banquo and his young son. 

"Banquo!" she cried softly, "and little Fleance." 

She kneeled, girding the boy with tender arms — for 
the youngest woman is mother to a motherless child — 
and he, knowing her of old for a loving comrade, clung 
to her, kissing her eagerly. 

But it was to Banquo himself that Bethoc looked. 

"He is safe?" she asked. 

"Oh, very safe," quoth Banquo, smiling as he seated 
himself on the high bank beneath a golden beech tree, 
"and well too. I will not tell you he does not fret, 
for you would not believe me. But the English king 
accords him a royal welcome and hospitality, hailing 



BETHOC GIVES WARNING 135 

him as son. You shall be at rest in your fears for 
Malcolm." 

Tears filled her eyes, happy tears, yet tears of sad- 
ness too. For could not the sympathy of love read 
how hard an exile that must be, even though the Eng- 
lish king's welcome were the warmest? 

But she should be satisfied at least in knowing him 
to be safe. Here was a breathing space between a grim 
past and lurid future. Her whole soul longed and 
panted in the desire that that future might show her 
beside her lover succoring him — with her very life if 
need be. Was she not his — body and soul? And did 
not the tempestuous blood of Kenneth the Grim and 
Gilcomgain the Reckless flow in her veins? 

She was not born for the sheltered, peaceful existence 
whose narrow limits were confined to the domestic joys 
and sorrows of a quiet home. 

So she listened, eager-eared, to Banquo's tale of how 
Malcolm had come in safety to the court of Edward 
the Confessor — whilst of Donalbain they had heard no 
word saving that he had reached Ireland. 

And when the tale was told, Bethoc set herself against 
the luxury of sweet conning over of messages sent her 
by him she loved. She must not be selfish — rather 
thinking as Malcolm would have her think. 

"The king remains at Forres," she told Banquo, 
and saw the latter start as she gave her stepfather the 
title that had been his for several months. 

"Aye," he replied dully. "So I have been told." 

She looked at him, a pucker of anxiety between her 
brows. 

"You will go to the palace?" she asked. 

Banquo returned her gaze, his own serene. 



136 MACBETH 

"I have already been thither, " he answered. 

"And have seen — the king?" 

"Aye — I have seen Macbeth." 

A pause held their tongues mute for a space. Fleance 
had wandered off, impatient of conversation and eager 
in pursuit of a scampering squirrel. 

"Tell me," questioned Banquo, "what ails him?" 

Bethoc drew her plaid close, fingering the jeweled 
clasp which girt it about her breast. 

"That I do not know," she faltered, "but there are 
times when a curious fit comes on him — which leaves 
him wan and sickly. Yet this is not often, and at other 
seasons he is filled with great zeal and energy in his 
task of kingship." 

"His task of kingship," mused Banquo aloud. "Ah, 
me. I must not speak. Yet how can I be mute? He 
has it all — king, Cawdor, Glamis, as the weird women 
promised — and yet I fear ... I fear . . ." 

He broke off, seeing the expression of horror on 
Bethoc's young face. 

His fears were hers. Yes, he knew that, knowing 
too, so well that love for Malcolm the exile burned as 
a bright flame in this poor child's heart to the exclusion 
of all other affections, such as that for parents or friends. 

And Bethoc, he felt sure, guessed that Macbeth had 
played most foully in the gaining of his desire — the win- 
ning of ambition. 

But these things must as yet remain a sealed book 
between them, seeing the time was not yet ripe. Mac- 
beth was not only king, but had at least in part blinded 
h^s subjects' eyes and closed their ears, by showing a 
wise and temperate justice, besides much skill in king- 
craft. 



BETHOC GIVES WARNING 137 

He knew how to rule — in that at least he justified 
his actions, and since his accession a burning zeal for 
the welfare of his people seemed to obsess him, whilst 
all the time he had been busy too in setting the ban 
of parricides upon the young princes whose hasty flight 
to safety, though discreet in saving their lives, had left 
them open to an accusation they could not refute. So 
Macbeth was king. He should have been satisfied with 
that, growing sleek in such success instead of gaunt 
and wolfish in appearance, as one haunted by a dismal 
fear. 

And such gripping dread leads to ill consequence. 
Even Bethoc was dimly aware of this, and since Fleance 
was absent, whispered her dread. 

"The king received you kindly?" 

Banquo looked up from a reverie ill-omened enough. 

"Why, yes," he smiled, "and bade me to the feast 
he holds tomorrow. A banquet in which he would 
honor me." 

Bethoc laid a trembling hand upon his mantle. 

"Ride hence," she entreated, "it is better so. Ride 
hence and homeward if you would not wish to share 
Malcolm's exile. I shall ... be afraid whilst you are 
at Forres." 

"And why?" he asked, "and why?" 

He would fain have fathomed her knowledge, little 
dreaming how much she knew — and how much more 
she guessed. 

"Oh, I do not know," she answered pitifully. "I 
often am afraid, though I am happier here at Forres 
than at Inverness." 

She shuddered, recalling those days when she and 
Banquo had met before. 



138 MACBETH 

"I have faith in presentiment/ ' she whispered, "and 
therefore bid thee go." 

Banquo frowned. "Had Duncan a presentiment of 
his end?" he asked abruptly. "I do not think so, 
else he had never gone to Inverness. Yet Nature her- 
self gave warning — as I heard — in bitter shrieks and 
lamentations, though none reached mine ears." 

Bethoc crossed herself. "They say," she replied with 
bated breath, "that Duncan's horses turned wild in 
the night on which he died, broke from their stalls and 
devoured each other, whilst, contrary to Nature, a falcon 
was hawked and killed by a mousing owl. Oh, those 
were evil days! Would I could draw the curtain of 
my memory over all and blot those deeds from mind. 
And yet I cannot. These things all happened, Banquo, 
less than eight months ago — and when I pray it is with 
the petition that never may I see Inverness again." 

"Poor child," said her companion. "Poor child — 
innocent and loving. These tragedies are too heavy in 
their weight for such shoulders. Yet, since we speak 
together of such things, I will confess that there are 
clouds on yon horizon which I dare not pierce. Macbeth 
was my friend." 

Bethoc bowed her head. "Is the king your friend?" 
she asked. 

Banquo smiled grimly. "Why, that's what I've come 
to prove — knowing the man and all his moods — save 
one," he replied; "and that last one the mood I met 
him in but now. Did he look sourly or sweetly, gladly 
or sadly, with suspicion or in love? When men wear 
masks it is difficult to study their features, little Bethoc. 
But I shall take trouble in searching for the truth ere 
I ride away." 



BETHOC GIVES WARNING 139 

"Ride now/' she importuned. "Ride now." 

He shook his head. 

"I would not damn such a friend before I prove him," 
he replied, "and besides, I have my errand to perform 
at Forres. The time is not ripe for young Malcolm to 
return — but the soil must be prepared. I have come 
to tend the garden for Duncan's son. Herein is my 
vow — nor will I run away because perchance there are 
serpents in the garden such as nourished in Eden. Yet, 
because an unwary gardener might chance to receive 
deadly bite taken unawares, I speak to thee, child, giving 
thee a charge. My little Fleance. If I am not by 
to save him when the serpent strikes, wilt thou play 
the good Samaritan to this lone lambkin?" 

Bethoc's eyes filled with tears. 

"My heart cries 'Go' — and 'stay,' " she sobbed. 
"Stay — for Malcolm's sake and learn truths too deep 
for my solving. Go — also for Malcolm and your child's 
sake, lest one is left to mourn a friend — another a 
father." 

"Did every man shirk death's shadow no battle e'er 
were fought or victory won," replied Banquo gently. 
"So I stay. Not rashly nor in foolhardiness — only so 
long as to learn the truth. Do I find indeed that treach- 
ery and murder lurk behind friendship's mask, Fleance 
and I will ride away. If not, I think I can serve Mal- 
colm better here at Forres than in my lonely castle of 
the north. So, sweet maid, I must return to court, 
seeing his majesty gives me audience anon, and I shall 
be busy with my riddle reading." 

He rose as he spoke, beckoning Fleance, who returned 
reluctantly, having found these woods more pleasant 
than the close atmosphere of the palace; and by the 



140 MACBETH 

burn-side were nuts, ripe for the picking. But hazel 
trees must be left burdened today — thus ran his father's 
decree, whilst the boy, laughing after a brief pouting, 
flung both arms about Bethoc's neck. 

"Tomorrow," he said, "we will come together and 
pick the nuts. Will you promise, Bethoc? But do not 
ask Lulach to join us, for I do not love him very much. 
We always quarrel when we meet — I know not why, 
unless it is that I desire my way and he his. So we will 
come together, Bethoc?" 

She promised readily enough, her starved heart glow- 
ing with new warmth and gladness — for she loved the 
noble Banquo, who was Malcolm's friend, aye, and little 
Fleance too, whom she had promised to protect if . . . 
if . . . 

Banquo, watching her, saw the red lips quiver and 
blue eyes suffuse in tears. He understood the reason 
and held the young girPs hands in a tender grasp. 

"There may be no need," he murmured gently. "But 
if there is, I do not fear you will forget, little Bethoc." 

She looked at him with frank, clear eyes of affectionate 
misgiving. 

"I have promised," she replied — and stooped to kiss 
Fleance again, thereby hiding the sight of her brimming 
tears from his father. 



CHAPTER XV 

AMBITION VERSUS FRIENDSHIP 

£yO Banquo had returned. 

i % Macbeth, pacing to and fro, paused suddenly 
with a quick, jerking movement as though an 
unseen hand had struck him. 

He was alone. Yes, he who generally shunned soli- 
tude was alone. Alone to think — alone to consider — 
alone to fear. 

Oh! he was afraid of Banquo, as he feared no other 
living man. Had not this bosom friend of his sternly 
chidden those weird prophetesses when first they hailed 
him — Macbeth — as king? 

And after chiding had demanded to know what prom- 
mises they could give him for himself! 

Ilda, the witch, had answered — had promised — then 
fled, laughing mockingly, 

" 'Thou shalt get kings, though thou be none." 

Thou shalt get kings! 

A zealous rage shook the childless man. Here lay a 
grudge, ripe for vengeance. 

What! Should Banquo indeed prosper where he 
failed? Flinging himself down on to a low couch, the 
king covered his face in his mantle, as though to shut out 
some unwelcome vision. 

"They hailed him father to a line of kings," he mut- 
tered; "upon my head they placed a fruitless crown, 
and put a barren sceptre in my grip, thence to be 

(141) 



142 MACBETH 

wrenched with an unlineal hand — no son of mine suc- 
ceeding. If this be so, what is my profit? For Banquo's 
issue I have murdered the gracious Duncan, for Banquo's 
seed I have wrecked my eternal soul, for Banquo have 
robbed me of my peace. For Banquo." 

Restlessly he rose and resumed his pacing, muttering 
into his beard, starting in nervous fits of fear, clenching 
and unclenching his hands. 

He had fled from Inverness, hoping to 'scape memory 
and her ghosts, but those pale presences had followed 
him here where he reigned; here where he was king, 
lord of all — saving that traitor memory, who showed him 
murdered Duncan in every dark watch of the night, 
roused him to hear his wife, that honored partner of his 
throne, sobbing in her sleep. A queen was she — his 
queen — Scotland's queen. But what bliss had followed 
such crowning? A golden circlet girt her ruddy locks, 
but surely the weight oppressed her, for even he, though 
striving to be blind, saw how wearily at times that proud 
head drooped beneath its burden. 

Only at times though. Such times as when that 
same pursuing memory held the clear mirror before 
her gaze, showing her a gracious sovereign lying in his 
gore, a loving guest murdered beneath her husband's 
roof — and at her desire. 

And Banquo had returned. 

Banquo, to whom the weird sisters had promised the 
throne — not for himself, but his heirs. Macbeth flung 
back his mantle as though the folds smothered him. 
He recalled how Banquo had stood but now within the 
castle hall, his hand resting on his young son's shoulder, 
a gallant little lad, bearing himself bravely, a ruddy 
health upon his cheeks, a proud up-rearing of his slim 



AMBITION VERSUS FRIENDSHIP 143 

young body. A king in embryo, for whom the king, so 
gloomily beholding, had damned his soul. 

A fury shook Macbeth. Hatred flamed where once 
warm passion of love had been. 

Banquo, his one-time friend, was now his enemy. 
Had he not read a covert accusation in those stern 
eyes? 

Had it not been whispered in the king's ear that 
Banquo had helped young Malcolm to escape in safety 
to England— had himself been his companion and guide? 

If so, Banquo was a traitor to the throne. And 
traitors died. 

Had not the Thane of Cawdor died a traitor's death? 

The Thane of Cawdor. 

At such a question memory was busy once again — a 
weary torment which well-nigh maddened him. 

How should he escape? What should he do? Banquo 
had returned. Every day he would see him at his 
court — every day gaze in those eyes which silently 
accused him. 

"Murderer!" those same ^yes cried. "A midnight 
assassin! Murderer of king, guest, friend. Oh, damned 
deed, which shall damn the doer." 

Again a frenzy shook the mind of Macbeth. Should 
those living eyes haunt him as well as the dead? 

Nay! Banquo must die — as Duncan the king had 
died. And not only Banquo, but Fleance too. Thus 
should the prophecy be null and void. No seed of 
Banquo should mount his throne. And the king laughed, 
triumphing in the subtlety of his craft. 

With Banquo and Fleance dead was it not possible 
that, the spell of prophecy broken, a son of Macbeth 
yet should ascend the throne? 



144 MACBETH 

Again ambition, soaring this time into the future, 
demanded a bloody crime. 

And crime begets crime most surely. 

This time decision was easier to the man who before 
had been pricked to his purpose by a woman's will. 

Banquo and Fleance both should die — but there was 
no need for the queen to know till afterwards. Thus 
cunningly Macbeth argued with himself, doubtful of 
his wife's mind in this matter, for Gruoch was not as 
she had once been. Proud, queenly, self-possessed by 
day, he only knew how at night she would weep and 
moan, tossing to and fro, murmuring many names — 
those of her father, brother, Gilcomgain, Duncan. Yes, 
often that last in awe, terror, pity. 

Duncan the king, gracious and kindly, who had 
thanked her with such condescension. Macbeth had 
never seen the diamond again, which had been a dead 
man's last gift. But there were dark circles around 
the queen's beautiful eyes when she rose of a morning, 
though she vowed her sleep had been sweet and un- 
troubled. How could trouble haunt the pillow of a 
queen? Could not the voice of satisfied ambition lull 
any wakeful brain to rest and peace? 

What mockery of questions were these. 

But Banquo's fate must be no mockery. 

So the pale king summoned his attendant and sent 
him on an errand. 

The man was to be trusted, for Macbeth, with all his 
scheming ambitions, had possessed the trick — or gift, 
if you will — of winning men's hearts, and some hearts 
once won are constant in their love even when love must 
be blind and unquestioning. 

So Donald, famous henchman to the Thane of Glamis, 



AMBITION VERSUS FRIENDSHIP 145 

was still faithful servant to the King of Scotland, though, 
had he chosen, he would not have gone on that errand 
to which Macbeth sent him so secretly on the day that 
Banquo and Fleance returned to Forres. 

But Macbeth had essayed to smooth his brow into a 
semblance of gracious and kingly dignity before he, 
with his queen, entered the presence chamber, where 
Banquo awaited their coming. 

What pomp was here displayed! Bowing courtiers, 
ready pages, subservient attendants, all added and bound 
up that state of royal splendor for which a man and 
woman had sold their peace. 

A hollow bargain — hollow as the wind which swept 
across moor and plain, rustling through the forest, which 
scattered its tribute of golden leaves in its passage. 

How hollow and how flavorless an honor surely the 
queen herself would have proved. 

Thequeen! Yes, there she stood before the eyes of 
Banquo, who pitied as he saw her, not knowing the part 
this woman had played in the tragedy of Inverness. 

A pale queen, wan of cheek, with dark circles about 
her lovely eyes. Yet the royal crown of Scotland 
gleamed less ruddily than her tresses, and her splendid 
robes showed a figure whose grace was unsurpassed in 
all the realm. 

Was she content? Had she so glutted her sharp 
appetite with revenge and ambition, both fulfilled, that 
she could smile, saying, "At last my heart knows peace." 

It was not peace that shone in the troubled depths 
of eyes that turned a restless gaze this way and that, 
seeking but never finding. Seeking maybe for that 
very peace which should have been hers if peace follows 
satiated desire. 



146 MACBETH 

She had reached her goal — did she find she had been 
cheated by some false mirage? A fatal will-o'-the-wisp, 
who mocked in snaring her? 

Possibly Macbeth, having more at stake as winner of 
a kingdom, was the better actor, for he wore his mask 
when greeting Banquo. 

"Here's our chief guest," cried he, with seeming 
joviality and an eye askance for Banquo's grave-set 
face; and, so saying, took his old comrade by the arm, 
leading him to where Gruoch sat upon her dais-like seat. 

The queen smiled — such a smile as had winter's chill 
and summer's burning, quenchless flame in it. 

"If he had been forgotten," she replied, holding out 
her hand for Banquo's lips to press, "it had been as a 
gap in our great feast which none other could have 
filled." 

"Tonight," added the king, giving his unwelcome 
visitor no time for answer, "we hold a solemn supper, 
and I'll request your presence." 

Banquo bowed gravely. No smile lighted his eyes; 
his tones were formal. 

"Let your highness command one," he said, "whose 
duties are knit to him forever by a most indissoluble 
tie." 

Macbeth passed his hand across his brow. 

What voice spake those words? Was it the loyal 
speech of an unbroken friendship and unswerving faith, 
or the bitter irony of one who knows his innermost 
secrets? 

He could not answer that question — and would take 
no risks! 

Banquo must pay the toll of those whose memory 
might retain too much knowledge. 



AMBITION VERSUS FRIENDSHIP 147 

If the weird sisters of the heath had damned Macbeth's 
soul by their too faithful prophecy, they must also be 
regarded as the slayers of Banquo's body. Banquo 
and Fleance — aye, Banquo and Fleance both. 

A failing purpose was knit the faster by such thoughts, 
unshared by the listless queen who sat so wearily in her 
high place, unrejoiced by the splendor of a palace home, 
the lavishness of display, the subservience of many 
courtiers and wordy sycophants. 

She only looked very wistfully at sturdy Fleance, 
whose blooming beauty seemed to gladden a dark room. 
Her own Lulach was out with his falcon, attended by 
careful servants, but Lulach had grown querulous and 
pale of late; too much pampering had agreed ill with 
him. And . . . she was afraid at times . . . afraid 
that Macbeth, jealous of mood, might conceive a mis- 
liking of the child, who was no son of his. So the tears 
gathered slowly in her eyes as she thought of her son 
and what the future held for him. 

"Ride you this afternoon?" questioned Macbeth 
sharply, his piercing gaze fixed upon Banquo's imper- 
turbable face. 

"Aye, my good lord," replied the soldier — who had 
seen the queen's tears and felt his heart soften, deeming 
he guessed the cause. 

Involuntarily the king drew a sigh of relief, though 
his reply was careless. "We should have else desired 
your good advice in this day's council," said he, "but 
we'll take tomorrow. Is it far — your ride?" 

"As far," smiled Banquo, deeming this purposeless 
talk, "as will fill up the time 'twixt this and supper, 
though, unless my horse be swifter than my present 
purpose, night may overtake me ere my return." 



148 MACBETH 

Macbeth nodded. "Fail not our feast," said he. 

Banquo bowed. "My lord, I will not," he replied; 
and in all his speech was the same grave courtesy of 
subject to sovereign, but no hint of former friendship. 

In vain might the king's gaze strive to pierce the dark 
shield of his mind, and in failure his own black purpose 
strengthened. 
, But he dissembled cleverly. 

"We hear," said he, with swift change of front, "that 
our cousins have found asylum in England and Ireland, 
where, instead of confessing their cruel parricide, they 
fill their hearers' ears with strange inventions. But of 
that tomorrow, when such matters can be discussed 
with the affairs of state. Hie you to horse. Adieu till 
you return tonight. Goes Fleance with you?" 

Banquo drew his young son to his side with protec- 
tive gesture, as though he spied a baleful gleam in the 
glance Macbeth bestowed upon the boy. 

"Ah, my good lord," he retorted more curtly. "And, 
so please you, our time does call upon us." 

"Farewell," smiled the king, as he rose from his dais, 
giving the queen his hand to lead her from the room. 
"I wish your horses swift and sure of foot, and so I do 
command you to their backs." 

So speaking, he watched the soldier and his son quit 
the room, watched, first with smiling, then with moody 
eyes, his hand clenched hard against his side, the muscles 
of his face contracted as though to stifle back a cry. 

A cry? Why should he cry or call? Would he give 
warning to the man who in other days had been his 
bosom friend, companion and sharer in triumphs or 
defeats, failures or success? Would he have pleaded, 
"Go not hence, Banquo, evil awaits thee. Evil, red- 



AMBITION VERSUS FRIENDSHIP 149 

handed and murderous, to strike not only thee, but at 
that line of embryo kings which might spring from thy 
seed?" 

Should he so cry? Nay! that were to make all his 
own dreams abortive, all his own hopes null and void. 
So he was silent, watching the heavy curtains which 
had fallen into place behind young Fleance. 

Banquo had gone — passing forever from his life. 
There were none left now whom he had cause to fear. 
Tomorrow he would sit firmer on his throne for this 
day's deed. 

With a resolute straightening of himself the king 
glanced around, fearful that any might have noted his 
hesitation, or the nervous twitching of lips which had 
so nearly spoken detaining words of mercy. 

"Let every man be master of his time till seven at 
night," he commanded, with would-be gaiety. "To 
make society the sweeter welcome, we will keep ourself 
till supper-time alone: till then, God be with you." 

He raised the queen's hand and led her from the room; 
her head was drooping slightly, as though over-burdened 
by the weight of her crown. 



CHAPTER XVI 

THE WEIGHT OF A CROWN 

WAS the king alone? Who, then, were those 
two admitted to instant conference with him 
as soon as he had reached the solitude of his 
own room? Why was it that Donald stood without 
the door on careful guard, leaving his lord within in 
company with those whose every secret look and shifty 
gaze bespoke them untrustworthy and possessed of 
villains' souls? 

Men who glanced askance first at each other, then at 
the moody king, whose craft they feared might surpass 
their own and land them in some trap. 

"We have spoken together before," quoth Macbeth, 
and though he knew the walls had no ears and the door 
a faithful guard, he spoke with bated breath as one who 
fears his own speech, though he would have none to 
guess it. 

"It was so, an* please your highness/' replied the 
foremost of the twain, a shiftless desperado of a fellow, 
named Cedric. 

"Well then," said the king, speaking with some curious 
impatience at his own words, "have you considered 
what I showed you then? How that you have been 
brought to your present state of misery and misfortune, 
not — as you supposed — by me, but by Banquo? Thus 
it was he— who, with myself — led you aforetime to 
battle — who conceived hot anger and suspicion against 

(150) 



THE WEIGHT OF A CROWN 151 

you both, and rested not till he had destroyed all but 
your shamed and destitute bodies and souls. Shall 
you in future recall your enemy's name? Banquo?" 

The men stared again at each other, clutching at their 
ragged shirts, tearing them aside as though to show the 
stark leanness of their shriveled chests. Hunger was 
in their eyes — and lust of hate as well as cunning. 

"We shall remember, my liege," growled Cedric with 
sinister intonation. "We shall not forget what your 
highness hath made known to us." 

"Today I go further," said the king. "I will question 
you who He so low in ruin and despair. From your 
palsied want would you rise to kneel in prayer for this 
good man and his issue, whose heavy hand hath bowed 
you to the grave? Is such meek patience yours?" 

The mocking words brought a flush to both listeners' 
cheeks. 

"We are men, my liege," retorted Cedric, and there 
was an ugly light in his narrow eyes as he spoke. 

Macbeth laughed — a curious laugh, which echoed in 
his companions' memories. 

"Aye," he assented. "In the catalogue ye go for 
men. As hounds and greyhounds, mongrels, spaniels, 
curs, are all cleped by the name of dogs. It is a shrewder 
definition which must single each forth according to the 
gift a bounteous nature has bestowed on it. And so with 
men. Now, if you have a station in the file, and not in 
the worst rank of manhood, state the fact plainly to me 
here, and I will show you how you can take vengeance 
on, and be forever rid of, this enemy, who has pursued 
you to your undoing, and at the same time — at the same 
time, mark you both — win our favor, regard, and rich 
bestowal of reward, since we will confess to finding 



152 MACBETH 

more pleasure in this paltry tyrant's death than in his 
life." 

The second miscreant, stamped by the mark of lowest 
degradation, laughed aloud as he thrust forth his hand. 

"I am one, my liege," quoth he, "whom the vile 
blows and buffets of life have so maddened that I am 
reckless what I do to spite a world that hath treated me 
so ill." 

"And I another," added Cedric, "grown so weary of 
disaster that I would set my life on any chance to mend 
it or be rid of it." 

Macbeth regarded each in turn as he spoke. 

And on both sin-scarred countenances he thought to 
see a desperate honesty which confirmed the speaker's 
words. Yet he was slow to unbosom himself, though 
set in purpose. 

"Both of you know Banquo was your enemy," he 
said, weighing each word with much apparent sincerity. 

"True, my liege," muttered Cedric, wiping dry lips 
with the back of his hand. 

"So he is mine," went on the king, clenching his 
hands and raising them to the carved elbows of his 
chair. "So he is mine. Like you, I have sworn to be 
rid of my enemies. Like you, I know the name of the 
worst of those. It is Banquo. But unlike you, I must 
restrain my hand. I am not free to pluck my dagger 
from its sheath and strike death down to his heart, 
though every pulse of that same heart beats against 
me, my throne, my life. Nay, I am not free, since 
friends of mine are friends of his. And these other 
friends, whose love I covet, are necessary to me. Neces- 
sary to the support of that throne which Banquo's 
greedy hands would pluck from under me. Here is 



THE WEIGHT OF A CROWN 153 

the full tale of why I seek your assistance, knowing 
that in Banquo's speedy death we have common cause 
of rejoicing." 

The second fellow — he who had first declared his 
recklessness in life — grinned with clear understanding. 

"We shall perform what you command us, my liege, " 
said he. 

"Though our lines — " began Cedric, his black soul 
lustful for reward. 

But the king interrupted him. 

"Your spirits shine through you," he commended. 
"Now you shall withdraw — but neither far nor yet 
for long. Since this deed must be performed tonight. 
Within this hour at most I will summon you and furnish 
you with exact directions as to where to plant your- 
selves, the hour when you must be prepared to strike 
the blow, each detail for the safe compassing of the 
deed. It will necessarily have to be some distance from 
the castle, and, since I would have it clear to you what 
you must do — remember that the boy Fleance, our 
enemy's son — and so, in time, if spared his avenger — 
must die too. Yes, the son's death is as important to 
me as the father's. It must be both — or neither. Now, 
if you will, talk together of what I command, make your 
resolution, which once made beware of retraction. 
Free you are to choose what part you will — though, 
if you are the men I suppose, I do not think either 
choice or resolution will be difficult." 

In a breath they answered him, one in kindred as ne 
guessed, to his dark soul. "We are resolved, my lord." 

Macbeth's tense features seemed to relax; he passed 
his hand across his sweating brow. 

"Good," said he, "the matter is concluded. Remain 
here till I call you — it will not need a long patience." 



154 MACBETH 

He raised a heavy arras, which showed an inner closet, 
and both men passed within. 

Macbeth dropped the tapestried screen back into 
place. He had won! 

After tonight fear would be dead — as dead as Banquo. 
What more could he ask of Heaven — or hell? 

Banquo and Fleance would die. Whose eyes should 
then reproach him? 

As if in answer to the boast a face rose before his 
vision — a noble, gracious face, with mild blue eyes, 
which fixed themselves on his in mute reproach. Duncan 
was dead. Would memory never die? 

Thus asked the king — and mayhap those very words 
found echo in the heart of the wan queen, who stood 
amongst her women, robed for the feast, bosom, arms 
and hair flashing with jewels, her beauty none the less 
perfect because her cheeks were pale. 

And presently she would laugh, the shadows which 
haunted solitude would be dispersed by that defiant 
will which claimed that she had won her desire — that 
vowed she was triumphant — that laughed even when the 
fiercely beating heart within was wrung by fear or 
anguish. 

"Is Banquo gone from court?" she asked of the 
woman who knelt to straighten the folds of her fine 
embroidered robe. 

"Aye, madam," was the answer; "but returns again 
tonight." 

So Banquo returned again? 

The queen fingered the jewels about her neck. How 
easily the sparkling gems might throttle her. 

Why did she conceive such a thought? Why was 
death or its shadow always suggesting its grim presence? 



THE WEIGHT OF A CROWN 155 

And she had been thinking but lately of Banquo. The 
man her husband feared. Oh, yes, she knew thus much! 

Macbeth feared Banquo — but Gruoch thought of 
Banquo's son. Such a bonnie little lad, so fearless of 
mien, so straight of limb. She would not have harm 
befall Fleance. But who spoke of harm to Fleance — 
or to Banquo? How her thoughts drifted! 

"Go," she commanded her woman. "Say to the 
king I would attend his leisure for a few words." 

The woman — Grizel by name — curtsied and retired. 
Who knew better than she what her mistress' moods 
were? 

Left alone, the queen fell to musing — musing, as ever, 
on the past, from the time when Duncan had died at 
Inverness. 

It had been so easy to gain their desire. An un- 
expected visitor, drugged grooms — a fatal dagger 
thrust — and lo! an open and unquestioned path to a 
throne. So easy a revenge — the innocent for the guilty. 
Yes! but joy in the knowledge that Malcolm's line had 
been destroyed, his descendants swept from life and 
sovereignty, to exalt his enemies. 

Why was it that this knowledge, which should have 
been as balm to her fierce soul, brought no content? 
She had put forth a relentless hand to grasp joy — 
triumph — a crown, and lo! — naught but dust, ashes — 
a pursuing horror. 

Surely it would have been better to lie in death with 
murdered Duncan than dwell in fear, a miserable, 
haunting present in which a dead man's eyes sought 
hers in pitiful reproach. 

Who could kill ghosts? Did such an one exist, she, 
the queen, would honor him. 



156 MACBETH 

Her messenger returned. The king awaited her 
coming. 

So the queen, forgetful of her own forebodings, sought 
her husband, finding him alone, ever pacing to and fro, 
muttering to himself, with gusty breaths of laughter 
shaking him at times as one who mocks a vanquished 
enemy. 

Was this a new mood that flushed Macbeth's swart 
features and kindled lightning flashes in his dark eyes? 

Gruoch approached, laying her hand on his. 

"How now, my lord?" she asked in honey-sweet 
tones from which all fear had fled. "Why do you 
keep alone, making such sorry fancies your companions? 
Let these thoughts die as . . . as those died who fill 
them. Things without remedy should be without 
regard. What's done is done." 

Macbeth turned, snatching at the soft fingers which 
had rested so lightly on his wrist. His face was haggard, 
though laughter twisted his lips — laughter that faded 
into grimness as he spoke. 

"We have scotched the snake, not killed it," he 
muttered. "We must beware of the venom. Aye, the 
venom's there — have you not felt it in your blood, my 
wife? The venom which brings the torture of these 
terrible dreams that haunt us o' nights. Better be 
with the dead, whom we, to gain our place, have sent 
to peace, than to live in this torture of mind which 
damns the triumph we had hoped to gain." 

A sudden weariness seemed to seize the speaker; he 
laid his head down on his wife's shoulder, encircling her 
slender form with one arm. 

It was the gesture of a man who, having failed in 
his ambitions, gives way to despair, a slackening of 
strife, the desire to yield the conflict. 



THE WEIGHT OF A CROWN 157 

"Duncan is in his grave," he whispered, shuddering. 
"After life's fitful fever he sleeps well. Treason has 
done his worst; nor steel, nor poison, malice domestic, 
foreign levy, nothing can touch him further." 

Gruoch strove to rouse him. "Come," she urged, 
"these are but wild words which should have no place 
in our endeavor. Let us shut away the past and watch 
the sun rise on future greatness. Be bright and jovial 
amongst your guests tonight. We must laugh, my 
lord." 

Her seeming gaiety helped to rally him. Quickly as 
ever his mood changed. Was he not the king, whose 
every ambition was crowned by success? 

"So shall I, love," he cried, kissing the flushed cheek 
so near his own. "I will be merry and so, I pray, be 
you. And specially I would urge that you hold Banquo 
in high honor. Flatter him with sugared compliment 
and smile. We must bind him to us, since he could be 
a dangerous foe." 

Gruoch smiled. "Leave this to me," she replied, 
and fell to thinking of the rosy boy she had coveted. 
But Macbeth had resumed his quick pacing, with the 
irresolute step of one whose nerves are on the rack. 

"Oh, full of scorpions is my mind," he muttered. 
"Banquo and his Fleance live. Thou knowest that, 
dear wife? Yet . . . there's comfort coming, so do 
not fear. Before this night hath run its course a deed of 
dreadful note shall be done. A deed ... of blood." 

He raised his hands, looking first at one, then the 
other. Thus had he looked when in that midnight hour 
he had stolen red-handed from Duncan's chamber, 
clutching the murderous daggers. 

There had been blood on his hands then . . . but 



158 MACBETH 

now these hands were white . . . there were rings 
upon them . . . the hands of a king — not a murderer. 

" What's to be done?" breathed his wife, shivering 
as she fixed a startled gaze on her husband. 

Macbeth only laughed harshly as he drew her arm 
through his. 

" Better be innocent of the knowledge, dearest chuck, 
till thou applaud the deed. Come, you shall ask no 
questions till later. Do we not go to be merry? To 
feast, to laugh, to sing. The king holds revel — all his 
chiefs around him. All that is — save one. And he a 
traitor. Well! as Duncan said — traitors must die. 
It was his sentence on Cawdor, little guessing that 
another Cawdor should sentence him. You grow pale, 
love? Then we'll not talk of traitors, but only of how 
the king shall grow greater in his office. And so — to 
feast." 



CHAPTER XVII 

ANOTHER DEED OF BLOOD 

BANQUO was right in his prophecy. Night had 
overtaken him in his ride, since business, not 
pleasure, had taken him to the little village of 
Findhorn, which was the port of Forres, as Leith is 
the port of Edinburgh. There he had conferred with 
a certain Flemish captain, who was about to set sail 
for England, and his talk had been prolonged beyond 
his intention. 

So night found them riding back across the Hard 
Moor, preceded by a servant, who carried a torch. 
Stars shone overhead, but there was no moon. Banquo 
was in a silent mood, his mind busy with many crowding 
thoughts. 

He had come to Forres not wishing to be at open 
enmity with one whom he dubbed usurper and most 
foul murderer. Yet Banquo was shrewd of head — and 
he had not forgotten the promise those weird women 
of the moor had made him. 

Should Fleance, his son, or sons of Fleance indeed be 
kings? If so, it behooved a father to guard well such 
embryo sovereigns. So he would go softly, thinking 
rather of Fleance than of exiled Malcolm, whose cause 
he might the more warmly have espoused had not 
ambition knocked at his own door. 

"Father.'' 

It was Fleance himself who interrupted Banquo's 
meditations. 

(159) 



160 MACBETH 

"Father," repeated the boy. "I do not love the king 
of Scotland, do you? His eyes are cruel, methinks. 
And . . . and no more do I love Lulach, whom I shall 
beat one day for his insolent speech." 

Banquo roused from his reverie. 

They were nearing their destination now, and before 
them lay the blacker outline of the forest. 

"Softly, little son," said he. "You may not speak 
so of the king, whatever you think." 

"Well," replied Fleance with determination, "I 
shall think it then — always, for I could never love him, 
since I do not think he loves thee, father. His eyes are 
cruel. He looked cruelly at both of us — and the queen 
looked sadly. Why is she so sad, my father?" 

"I do not know, little son. But come, tell me who 
has won your fancy, which methinks is too critical for a 
babe?" 

"I am no babe. I am almost a man. And I love 
Bethoc. When I am quite a man I shall wed with her." 

Banquo laughed. 

"Go to, prattler," he said; "but I like your choice. 
Bethoc is good and true. She will be your friend, 
Fleance, if ever you need one." 

"But I do not need one," protested the boy, "since I 
have you." 

His father's laughter changed to sighing. What 
sudden presentiment did those words provoke? What 
sense of impotence in protecting this cherished life — 
sole legacy of a great love? 

"Heaven spare me for long to be your guardian, 
child," said he; "but who can tell what the future 
holds?" 
y Who could tell indeed — least of all Banquo, who never 



ANOTHER DEED OF BLOOD 161 

dreamed that crouching figures awaited his coming 
yonder at the head of a dark glade leading towards the 
castle. 

Tonight surely he was safe! A guest but rarely 
arrived who had shown no hint of a rebellious spirit. 
So Banquo argued, forgetting that guilt sees threatening 
danger where no danger is. 

And if presentiment had touched the soul of Mac- 
beth's old companion-in-arms, it was as some far-off 
fear which he meant to escape from in good time. 

Tomorrow — the next day — he and Fleance would 
leave Forres. At present he meant to mask his mind 
and join in feasting at a board he would prefer to have 
been absent from. 

Thus, proud of his own diplomacy, and with the 
dream of Fleance's future greatness haunting his deeper 
consciousness, Banquo reined in his horse at the out- 
skirts of the forest. 

There were so many pitfalls that in so close an under- 
growth it became dangerous to ride at night along the 
narrow track. 

Dismounting, therefore, from their steeds and hold- 
ing the bridles in their left hands, the trio proceeded on 
foot, the servant going first with a lighted torch. It was 
a slow progress, and Banquo was about to urge a quicker 
pace, afraid that the feast would be already in progress, 
when a rustling at the right of the path caught his quick 
ear. 

"Halt!" he cried to the servant, who instantly wheeled 
about, thrusting his torch towards the clump of hollies 
which grew close to the path. 

But it was from the opposite side that two men in- 
stantly leapt out with so sudden a movement that 
11 



162 MACBETH 

Banquo had no time to draw his sword, though with 
the instinct which ever comes in a moment of crisis 
he pushed Fleance from him. 

"Treachery," he gasped, as the burning pain of a 
dagger thrust stabbed deep into his side. "Fly, good 
Fleance, fly, fly, fly. Thou . . . may'st revenge . . . 
Fly . . . ." 

The servant, who had been three or four paces ahead, 
had been struck down as he rushed to his master's 
defence, and as he fell the light became extinguished. 

Instant blackness enfolded them, hiding tragedy's 
ghastly face. 

Banquo had sunk to the ground. A crushing blow 
upon the head had felled him. But Fleance had fled. 

"Who struck out the light?" growled Cedric with an 
oath, as he stumbled over the body of one victim in 
search of another. "Where's the boy?" 

"There's but one down," replied the companion; 
"the son is fled." 

"Then we've lost best half of our affair." 

"Well, let's away and say how much is done." 

"No, no. Not yet. I fear the king. What, ha! — 
a light." 

There came the sound of scraping of tinder on flint, 
and again the torch flared. 

The second man held the light high, whilst Cedric, 
with utter callousness, turned over the body of the 
unfortunate Banquo. 

"Lesser than Macbeth and greater . . . not so happy, 
yet much happier" 

Was the weird sister's prophecy thus fulfilled? There 
was a tranquillity upon the noble features, surprising to 
see in one who had died so violent a death. 



ANOTHER DEED OF BLOOD 163 

Had Banquo, in the dread parting of soul and body, 
realized that Fleance had escaped? 

Surely that mercy must have been vouchsafed, since 
one might have said the dead man smiled in spite of 
ghastly wounds, which seemed to gape in twenty different 
places through his rent raiment and about his head. 

Dead? Why, yes! Macbeth need fear Banquo's 
accusing eyes no more — might rest secure indeed, since 
the one man he dreaded would speak no more on earth, 
however he might arraign him before another judgment 
seat. 

Dead! One task complete indeed. The servant was 
dead too. Cedric had not scrupled to silence the faint 
groaning proceeding from that quarter, and in a trice 
the villains had bundled their poor victims into the 
nearest ditch, and then stood, with arms akimbo, looking 
round. 

"The boy hath fled," growled Cedric, cursing, "and 
as well seek a rabbit in its burrow as a fugitive in this 
darkness. However, we'll do our best." 

He snatched at the torch and plunged first into the 
undergrowth, followed by a grumbling comrade whom 
murder had made thirsty. 

But Cedric was the master, nor would he leave the 
search till common sense warned him of its uselessness. 
The night, made blacker underneath these trees, played 
the friend to Fleance, and his enemies searched for him 
vainly. Perhaps the reason was that Fleance, who 
would certainly have betrayed himself if he could in the 
terror of his flight, was saved from discovery by having 
fallen down a bramble-covered pit, at the bottom of 
which he now lay, in merciful oblivion of all that had 
happened and was happening around him. 



164 MACBETH 

"The king awaits our return. It waxes late," grum- 
bled Alan. "We shall never find that fry in this wilder- 
ness. Come, I'll not delay." 

And this time Cedric did not demur. 

Lights blazed from the grim old castle in which King 
Duffus had died so tragically over a hundred years 
before; busy servants hurried to and fro in preparation 
of the great banquet at which King Macbeth was to 
preside. 

A night of revelry it was to be. A night of song, 
dancing, music and wine quaffing. A night for laughter 
and mirth. 

And who to guess that the dead body of the chief 
guest, whose honor the king had so much desired, lay 
gashed and bleeding by that king's command in a ditch 
not a mile distant from the castle? 

By the king's command. 

And he had been obeyed. Already on the threshold 
of the banqueting hall stood the man who had vowed 
so recklessly that he was ready for all hazards of life 
or death. 

The king had seen him too, and moved aside to where, 
in an adjoining recess, he might learn the news which 
should gladden him through the coming feast. 

Cedric stood in the shadow. He had stolen hither 
alone and was breathing fast. There was more danger 
in this business for the king's tool than for the king him- 
self. 

Macbeth regarded him earnestly. 

"There's blood upon thy face," he breathed, and 
glanced back over his shoulder. Soon the banquet 
would be ready, and he would have to take his place 
amongst those who laughed and jested. 



ANOTHER DEED OF BLOOD 165 

"'Tis Banquo's then/' answered the grim messenger. 
The king stooped nearer, his dark eyes glowing. 

"Is he dispatched?" he whispered, and the words 
came in a hiss which told of fear. 

"My lord," quoth Cedric tersely, ''his throat is cut. 
That I did for him." 

A moment's silence. So Banquo was dead! Ilda, 
the witch, could be a false prophetess after all. But 
what of his son? Macbeth's face was gray with appre- 
hension as he put that second question. 

"Thou art the best of cut-throats. But what of 
Fleance — what of the boy? Did you perform the like 
for him as you bestowed on the father? If so " 

The speaker's lips twitched visibly beneath the short, 
dark beard. 

"My liege," retorted Cedric, more gloomily this time, 
"the boy escaped." 

The king's raised hands fell to his side as though 
weighted by despair. 

"Then comes my fit again," he moaned. "Had 
Fleance died tonight I had known peace. A perfect 
safety had been mine. But now — the son of Banquo 
lives, and doubts and fears whirr bat-like around me. 
He lives — but he must die. I'll see to that. A child 
shall not escape where a father's wisdom failed to 
protect his own life. And Banquo's safe?" 

"Aye, my good lord. Safe in a ditch he bides, with 
twenty gashes on his head and body — each in itself a 
death to nature." 

"Thanks for that. There the grown serpent lies — 
the worm that's fled hath no teeth for the present. Get 
thee gone, fellow. Tomorrow seek me out, you shall 
not fail of reward. A king's promise. And Fleance 



166 MACBETH 

fled! You shall not leave the task incomplete. Now 
go — else we shall be marked in converse." 

Cedric needed no second bidding. The king's haggard 
countenance, his disjointed sentences, the evident terror 
that shook him, warned the murderer that his own reward 
might be other than he expected. So, raising the cur- 
tain behind him, he slipped away. 

The murmur of voices in the banqueting hall beyond 
told the king that his merry guests were assembled. 
With a supreme effort after self-control he turned from 
the alcove and walked with firm step towards the seat 
at the head of the central table near which the queen 
was standing. 

A queen — his queen — Scotland's queen. How many 
more deeds of blood would be necessary for establishing 
that honor he had claimed so treacherously for himself 
and this woman he loved? 



CHAPTER XVIII 

A STRANGE BANQUET 

THE king held revel. Torches flared and smoked 
from the iron cressets on the walls, the great 
hall was crowded with guests, whilst hounds and 
falcons lay or strutted about over the reed-strewn floor, 
gnawing at bones or pecking the stray grains of corn. 

It was a gay and busy scene, not lacking in animation, 
though possessing none of the splendor of later reigns. 
At the central table, which ran down the greater length 
of the hall, were seated the principal guests of the 
nobility, the chieftains, long-haired and stately, the 
rich and variegated colors interwoven in their plaids, 
making brave display with their saffron shirts; and yet 
more splendid in their array were their wives, round 
whose necks hung many jeweled chains, whilst jewels 
sparkled in the great buckles of the belts which girded 
their plaids below their breasts. At the head of this 
central table were the two seats reserved for the king 
and queen. 

In a wider circle were the benches, occupied by ser- 
vants and dependents, whilst in and out, hurrying to and 
fro, were the boys and girls who waited alike on all the 
guests, carrying dishes heaped with viands of all de- 
scriptions, fish from the lochs, flesh from the rich pastures, 
fowl from the moor-side and forests. Liquor, too, flowed 
freely and was brought in drinking vessels of horn and 
timber, the latter named tnethir, being two-handled and 

(167) 



168 MACBETH 

holding from one to three pints. Standing to the right 
of the central table was a white-haired bard, his harp 
before him. His was the task of singing brave songs of 
noble deeds and gallant fights to stir the blood of Scotia's 
sons and daughters, whilst lighter music for dancing 
and merry-making would be supplied in the skirl of 
pipes, which should provoke laughter, shouting, all the 
mad turmoil of revelry, when liquor had fired the blood, 
and the banquet should be at its height. 

Oh, but it was to be a merry feasting in the palace of 
Macbeth the king tonight! A merry feasting in that 
grim castle, once the home of other murdered monarchs. 

And who to laugh more gaily than Queen Gruoch, 
as she stood, radiant in her mature loveliness, to bid 
her husband's guests welcome? 

Beside her stood the king — a proud figure of majesty, 
who gazed around with the lordly eye of a conqueror 
as he saw flushed faces raised to him and his queen, 
tankards and drinking vessels raised, whilst from hun- 
dreds of throats came hails to the king. 

" All hail, Macbeth, that shalt be king hereafter." 

He was king indeed tonight — now Banquo was dead. 
He raised a cup to his own lips — his hand shook. 

Now Banquo was dead. 

But he would not think of the dead tonight. Gruoch 
was smiling joyously on all around. How beautiful she 
was — how happy! 

Was it possible this was she who lay by his side all 
night moaning and weeping in her sleep because of the 
horror that haunted the darkness? 

Hugh the bard struck the strings of his harp; long, 
rippling cadences, which soon resolved themselves into 
stirring melody. , 



A STRANGE BANQUET 169 

A splendid voice, a splendid theme, both ringing up to 
the low rafters of the great hall. 

How the blood even of the lowest serf was stirred by 
such tales of victory. But be sure the heroes of Hugh's 
song were not Malcolm the Victorious or Duncan the 
Gracious, but rather Kenneth the Grim and his stern 
father before him. 

Brave battles fought, gallant victories won — of such 
sang Hugh the bard, and his song was echoed by the 
shouts of the revelers, so that Bethoc looked from her 
seat beside Lennox to gaze with half-frightened eyes 
around. 

She was looking for Banquo, Malcolm's friend, who, 
above all others, she was ready to count her friend in that 
noisy crowd of feasters. 

But Banquo came not, and the king had risen, passing 
to and fro between his guests with that pleasant familiar- 
ity by which he set himself to win popularity. 

How the world laughed tonight — and he with it. 
What matter if the moonlight was cold without where 
Banquo lay? 

In a ditch was it that yon black-browed murderer 
showed the corpse to lie hid? 

Again — what matter, so long as he were dead? If 
only Fleance were with his father. 

The king gritted his teeth, and then laughed at the 
jest of a red-bearded Thane who hugged his brimming 
methir as though it were his sweetheart encircled by loving 
arms. 

Laugh! Why, yes, of course he laughed! Was he 
not merry? Gruoch was merry too — he paused to 
watch her as she leaned forward to address Rosse. How 
gracious was her gesture; the flare of torches showed the 



170 MACBETH 

whiteness of her swan-like neck and the ruddy crown of 
her hair. 

Ah! he would sin again to hell for such a woman. 
And there would be no need for further sin — now Banquo 
was dead. That last had been necessary. Banquo had 
learned the way of ambition, as he himself had 
learned it. 

An ambitious subject is a king's danger. 

Had Duncan known that truth he might have been 
alive today, sitting in the king's seat. 

Sitting . . . in . . . the king's . . . seat. . . . 

Macbeth, having made a tour of the hall, had turned 
and was pacing slowly back. He did not laugh now, 
and his brow was clouded. 

" Would that Banquo were here." he lied aloud, 
thinking how well the memory of such words would 
sound upon the morrow. "Is it unkindness or mischance 
that keeps him from the feast? We are tempted to fear 
the former." 

a His absence shames his promise," replied Lennox, 
the glib courtier. "Please it your highness to grace us 
with your royal company?" 

"The table's full," smiled the king — and his restless 
gaze traveled slowly up the board, seeing faces that 
smiled back sleekly to his own regard, masking all feeling 
to that of smooth courtiership. 

"There's a place reserved, my liege," murmured 
Rosse, and glanced towards the empty seat beside the 
queen's. But what had seized Macbeth? What fear was 
this which suddenly convulsed features which a second 
before had been smiling urbanely round upon his friends? 

He was looking towards that empty seat — and as he 
gazed he appeared to fall into some strange catalepsy. 



A STRANGE BANQUET 171 

His dark hair seemed to move and stand on end, splashes 
of froth showed upon his beard, his clenched hands 
were raised as though to ward off the leap of some deadly, 
crouching foe, his eyes were fixed in horror as they gazed. 

Gazed upon what? Thus each startled guest whis- 
pered to his neighbor as he or she glanced first at the 
empty seat — then at the trance-like figure of the king, 
whose fixed gaze seemed riveted on some vision of horror. 
But none of those who looked, whispering and afraid, 
as a sudden awe and hush fell on all around, saw the 
shadowy thing which had filled the king's seat. 

A thing which, out of nothing, slowly gathered the 
semblance of a man. Yes, a man. Macbeth could have 
sworn that he beheld each fold of the pleated plaid, 
the jeweled belt, the saffron shirt, with wide sleeves 
falling aside from the strong arms — knew, too, the 
features of that terrible apparition — noted how blood 
flecked the gray beard, whilst gaping, hideous wounds 
had torn the features and showed red rents upon the 
head where gray locks lay matted in gore. 

A thing of dread — of terror — showing death's tragic 
face; but — strangest of all — the eyes were fixed, not in 
death's unseeing stare, but in bright and terrible menace 
upon the shrinking king. 

Eyes of blue fire which accused a murderer and 
arraigned him to the judgment seat of God. The eyes 
of Banquo. 

An ague seized Macbeth, he put out a cold hand and 
clutched at the shoulder of his nearest neighbor to 
steady himself, whilst all the time he looked towards 
that empty seat. 

"Which of you have done this? " he panted. "Which 
of you?" 



172 MACBETH 

His wife had risen and was hurrying towards him. 
She saw no ghost, yet feared as much as though she 
had, seeing how near the king was to self -betrayal. 

" What is it that moves your highness? " asked Lennox. 

All echoed the question. 

But Macbeth did not reply — he only muttered as a 
delirious man might do, pointing towards his seat. 

"Thou canst not say, I did it," he mouthed. "Never 
shake thy gray locks at me." 

The words ended in a scream, as the speaker hid his 
face in his sleeve. 

"Gentlemen, rise," quoth Rosse, springing to his 
feet. "His highness is not well." 

But the queen, having reached her husband's side, 
and twining one arm about him, faced their startled 
and uneasy guests. 

She still smiled in perfect self-command. 

"Sit, worthy friends," she urged. "My lord is often 
thus, and hath been from his youth. I pray you, keep 
seated. He will soon be well again. Feast on and regard 
him not, for such notice but increases his spleen and 
irritates the passing malady. He'll soon be well." 

As she spoke, calming jangled nerves and satisfying 
the curious, she drew the king apart. 

He yielded to her touch, but kept his wild eyes still 
fixed upon the seat which, to his vision alone, was not 
empty, but filled by that dreadful thing which might be 
Banquo's self — a blood-stained, murdered self, whose 
eyes accused him, though he had sworn that never in 
this life should he again read their reproach. 

"Are you a man?" murmured the queen, meaning to 
lash him by her scorn. 

But he was past the shame of scorning. 



A STRANGE BANQUET 173 

r "Aye, and a bold one/' he retorted huskily. "Who 
dares look on that which might appal the devil." 

A violent shudder shook him. 

"Oh, proper stuff!" sneered the woman at his side, 
desperate to make him realize his folly. "This is the 
very painting of your fear; this is the air-drawn dagger 
which, you said, led you to Duncan. Shame! Shame! 
These tremors and starts, blanchings and cries, would 
better suit a woman. Shame on great Macbeth! Why 
do you make such faces? When all's done, you look but 
on a stool." 

Her husband's clutch tightened on her arm till she 
could have cried out with the pain. 

"See there!" he gasped. "See there! Behold! Look! 
Lo! How say you now? Why , what care I " — a sudden 
frenzy shook him, mockery in league with terror, as he 
watched that strange thing which to him seemed tangible 
enough — blood-stained, menacing. The ghost of mur- 
dered Banquo. "If thou canst nod, speak too!" he 
adjured, babbling towards the empty seat after the 
fashion of a man demented. "If charnel houses and our 
graves must send those that we bury, back, our monu- 
ments shall be the maws of kites." 

Slowly, very slowly, that which had sat within the 
king's seat faded back into the shadows from which it 
had resolved itself. Mists mingled with mists. The 
seat was empty. Only the memory of those accusing 
eyes remained to bring a sweating horror on their seer. 

"What!" gibed the fierce queen, "quite unmanned in 
folly." 

The king looked at her. The color returned but 
slowly to his cheeks. "If I stand here, I saw him," he 
avowed. She only mocked, crying shame on weak 



174 MACBETH 

fancies, seeing how their guests looked askance towards 
the spot where they stood in whispered converse. 

Macbeth passed his hand across his brow as though 
striving to brush away an ill-omened memory. 

" Blood hath been shed ere now," he muttered. 
"Cruel murders have been committed, aye, crimes too 
monstrous to be told again. Yet such victims, dying, 
there was an end. But now the dead rise again, with 
twenty mortal murders on their crowns and push us 
from our stools. What means this? Tell me — tell 
me — for here is something more strange than murder? " 

The queen herself was pale enough by now. Was 
this mere fantasy or had Macbeth indeed seen some 
ghastly vision such as haunted her own slumbers? 
But danger rallied her courage — was not the blood of 
Kenneth the Grim in her veins? 

"Come," she urged, "our guests await us. They ask 
what ails you." 

Macbeth started as a man rousing from a dream to 
find the instant need of wit to save himself from some 
threatened danger. 

As Gruoch had said, all eyes were turned towards them 
— many of the assembled company whispered together; 
it was apparent that the keenest curiosity was roused. 

And might not tonight's curiosity be tomorrow's 
suspicion? With a firm step and clearing brow Macbeth 
approached the seat which had lately held so gruesome 
a tenant. If he felt sickly qualms in filling such a place 
he masked his distaste with a boisterous laugh. 

"Pardon me, most worthy friends," he cried aloud, 
glancing around, his hand in that of his wife, "and think 
no more of this slight break in our carousing. I have 
... a strange infirmity, which is nothing to those that 



A STRANGE BANQUET 175 

know me. Come, love and health to all Then . . . 
I'll sit down. Give me some wine. Fill full. I drink 
to the general joy of the whole table!" 

He raised the great methir he held in both hands, 
and quaffed the wine it held with great gulps — a long, 
deep draught to fire his veins and bid mock at his own 
fears. Ah! the generous wine. He was better — bolder 
— now. Terror had fled. There were no ghosts amongst 
the dregs of the wine cup. So he proceeded with a 
defiant gaiety which impressed his hearers, a and to our 
dear friend Banquo, whom we miss," cried he, raising 
the cup again. "Would he were here! To all, and him, 
we thirst, and all to all." 

The assembled company were on their feet, shouts and 
laughter echoed the king's jovial toasts. Flagons, 
tankards, horns were raised, wine was quaffed, cheers 
and hails were called. It was to the king they looked 
— the king who, with laughter at his fears upon his lips, 
found those fears return to haunt him once again. 

Was it a shadow which slipped from behind the pillars 
round the hall? Ah! if so, never might such shadows 
fall across his path! 

A shadow which gradually took shape and form. The 
form of Banquo — dead Banquo, murdered Banquo, 
which flitted in and out around the hall, brushing un- 
suspecting guests with shadowy raiment. 

Was it a fancy? Had fancy such a shape? He saw 
the clotted gore about the broad temples, the matted 
hair, the gashed and bleeding features, noted the dis- 
ordered dress, the gallant bearing of a noble form; but 
above all, he saw those eyes. Eyes which were ever 
fixed on his with weird, compelling gaze. Eyes which 
henceforward must always haunt his memory — be with 



176 MACBETH 

him when he ate or drank or rode, be with him in battle 
and in peace, prosperity and adversity, haunt his couch 
at night, so that he would fear the horrid darkness 
which hid the features from which those eyes shone forth. 
Those hateful eyes, whose glance would never leave 
his, till he, like Banquo, was launched into dread eternity. 

A cold numbness bound the king in its icy spell as, 
with the great tankard still in his hand, he turned to 
watch that flitting, wraith-like figure which glided in 
and out amongst the living company, unseen by any 
but himself. 

"Avaunt!" his parched lips muttered, "and quit 
my sight! Let . . . the earth hide thee. Thy bones 
are marrowless, thy blood ... is cold. Thou hast 
no speculation in those eyes . . . which thou . . . 
dost glare with." 

The risen guests stared in new amaze. 

What fit was this? Had any seen the king so before? 

Why! this was some strange madness of the brain, 
descending like a pall in midst of merriment. 

"Think of this, good peers, but as a thing of custom," 
urged the queen, barely retaining but calm dignity; 
"'tis no more. Only it spoils the pleasure of the time." 

"Who would dare approach thee?" muttered Mac- 
beth, his haggard face convulsed, whilst, though he 
clung to his wife, his askance glance still wandered 
round the hall, compelled by the ghastly menace of a 
dead man's eyes. "If thou wast but alive again — I 
would slay thee with my sword, and have no fear. It 
is this shape which makes me tremble — this horrible 
shadow which beckons on a road. A road to grim 
despair. Yet how unreal a mockery. Avaunt!" 

His lips frothed, his whole figure shook. 




'A vaunt! and quit my sight.' 



A STRANGE BANQUET 177 

This was illness indeed — and the guests, now thor- 
oughly alarmed, had left their seats, and stood grouped 
about the hall, whispering and talking together of 
what this might portend, what might best be done. 

But even as they spoke, glancing towards the pale 
king and queen, the former appeared to grow calmer, 
the tense muscles of his face relaxed, his eyes grew less 
fixed in their regard, and he drew a deep breath of relief. 

"Gone!" he cried. "Gone! And so — being gone — I 
am a man again. Pray you, friends, sit still." 

But the queen interposed. Another such frenzy 
might betray the truth, which, as yet, she alone had 
guessed. 

"Nay, my lord," she replied. "You are too ill, and, 
being ill, all mirth has fled the feast, and all the pleasure 
of it gone. So, having out-stayed pleasure, we are best 
to bed." 

"Can such things be?" sighed the king; "but to me, 
friends, the greater wonder is that you should have all 
beheld such sights unmoved, whilst my cheeks were 
blanched in fear." 

"What sights, my liege?" questioned Rosse, across 
whose nimble brain suspicions flitted bat-like. 

Again the queen, growing more nervous as she saw 
the lurking doubt in the young chieftain's eyes, inter- 
posed. 

"I pray you, speak not to the king," she pleaded, 
with wifely solicitude; "he grows worse and worse. 
Questions enrage him. I will bid you good-night, my 
lords; stand not upon the order of your going — but go 
at once." 

She could not conceal all her agitation, for which, 
however, she found sufficient excuse. She longed to be 



178 MACBETH 

alone with her husband, knowing that in his present 
state of frenzy he might betray both himself and her 
by some wild allusion to the death of Duncan. 

Her command was obeyed — and lacking the usual 
pomp of ceremony, which, like all usurpers, Macbeth 
insisted should be observed in his court, the king and 
queen were escorted to their apartments. On the 
threshold Lennox lingered. 

"Good-night, your majesty," he said, with deep 
reverence, bending to kiss the trembling hand the queen 
extended. "And better health attend the king." 

He glanced past the stately figure before him, noting 
how Macbeth had sunk into a chair, where he lay cower- 
ing, his face shrouded by his arms. 

It was, indeed, a strange illness. 

"A kind good-night to all," answered the queen. But 
her voice shook as she spoke. 



CHAPTER XIX 



FLEANCE ESCAPES 



THE king had risen from his seat as the door closed 
upon courtiers and attendants, and as his wife 
hastened back to his side, he put out his hands 
with a groping gesture, as though to push something 
from him. 

"It will have blood!" he wailed, with the plaintive- 
ness of a sick man, "they say, blood will have blood. 
Stones have been known to move and trees to speak. 
Dread augurs of every kind and nature have betrayed 
the most secret criminal. " 

"Hush," urged the queen, growing timorous in her 
turn as fear clutched at her heart, and with startled 
gaze she looked over her shoulder, as though for her too 
dead Banquo's eyes haunted the shadows. "When 
you have slept, these sick fancies will pass." 

She dared not frame the question which trembled on 
her lips. Did she not know by her lord's wild mood 
that Banquo was dead — most likely Fleance too. 

Ah! the heaping of these dread crimes! Each fresh 
one necessary to hide that first which was her doing. 

When attendants came she dismissed them, repeating 
that the king was ill and grew delirious at sight of many 
faces. Surely all would be marveling at this! And 
yet — better surmisal than certainty! Every moment 
she expected her husband to shriek out confession of 
some past guilt. 

(179) 



180 MACBETH 

"How goes the night?" he asked wearily as, half 
unrobed, he lay back, his head pillowed against the 
queen's shoulder, lack-lustre eyes fixed on hers. 

"The dawn will soon break," she answered, and 
stared drearily into the darkness. 

Out there lay the quiet dead. Banquo and Fleance 
dead. 

• Ah, God! would the horror of these deeds never 
end? 

"Tomorrow," muttered Macbeth, "I will seek out 
those weird sisters. They shall tell me more. I must 
know all that the future holds — all. By the worst 
means, I'm bent to learn the worst — for mine own 
good. Do I wade deep in blood? Why! if so, I must 
wade deeper. To return now would be as tedious as 
to reach the farther shore. I will go on — on — . I will 
act, not think how or why I act, till it is done. I am 
the king — all must give way to that. Listen, Gruoch. 
A purpose stirs within me which I have scanned many 
a time. A purpose to prove the loyalty of these Thanes 
of mine and to accomplish a yet deeper design. In 
Perthshire is a certain hill known as Dunsinane, situate 
in Gowrie, which rises to so proud a height that a man 
standing aloft thereon may behold beneath him all the 
counties of Angus, Fife, Stermond and Ernsdale. Upon 
Dunsinane's high hill, therefore, I will build me a strong 
castle, and so that the charges be less, I will cause the 
Thanes of such shires within the realm to come and help 
towards that building — each man his course about. 
So in this way I will gain a stronghold and know the 
temper of my vassals." 

"It is well thought of," soothed the queen, glad that 
his mind should be diverted. "So, in building, you will 
set firmer foundations to your kingdom." 



FLEANCE ESCAPES 181 

"My kingdom," echoed her husband. "My kingdom 
— mine. But whose thereafter? Why have I no son 
to whom that so dearly won should descend? Thus 
should I found a mighty line of kings. Why have I no 
son? — but stand, a barren tree, which may be blasted 
by any breath of outraged Heaven. There is no peace 
in this, Gruoch. But, by Sinel's death! I'll make my 
own peace. Those who hailed me king shall show me 
my sons' sons upon the throne, which hath cost me 
dearly, I vow it." 

The restless fit was on him again, his dark eyes brooded 
gloomily upon the fair face of his wife. 

"Is not Lulach as a son to you, my liege?" pleaded 
Gruoch, clasping her hands above her heart to still its 
fierce beating. "Lulach, my son — by your love and 
guardianship, son to you likewise. Shall he not be your 
heir?" 

"Better he than Fleance," muttered Macbeth; 
"better he than Malcolm. These are worms who will 
grow to serpents if we do not scotch them. If they 
were dead . . . ." 

The queen paled. 

"Then Fleance is not dead?" she breathed, and 
could almost feel relief as she thought of the rosy-faced 
boy who had seemed so full of life and joyance a few 
hours since. 

"Not dead," replied Macbeth; "but he shall die. It 
must be so. Did not the woman — weird prophetess of 
hell — cry Hhou shalt get kings.' If Fleance dies, that 
prophecy shall fail. So he must die. I'll see to that." 

Muttering, cursing, with occasional deep-drawn breaths 
as of one who grows weary in seeking what he cannot 
hope to find, the king slept at last, worn out by his 



182 MACBETH 

excitement and fear; but the woman who sat by his 
side, resting back against the wall, did not sleep. Wide- 
eyed, she watched the blacker shadows of the night flee 
and the gray dawn break. The dawn that showed the 
queen of Scotland as a wan-faced woman, her gaze 
fixed in blank despair upon the void before her, her 
ruddy locks streaming in dishevelment about her bowed 
shoulders. 

It was the same dawn which found Bethoc standing 
ready-gowned on the threshold of her room. 

The young girl had quitted the banqueting-hall on 
the preceding evening long before her stepfather's 
strange seizure had brought an abrupt conclusion to the 
revelry. 

Truth to tell, Bethoc had been in no mood for gaiety, 
though she was not unhappy. Her earlier meeting with 
Banquo, the welcome news concerning Malcolm, which 
had stirred her hungry desire for a lover's presence, had 
given her food for sweet meditation which could not be 
indulged in in the midst of loud-voiced mirth. 

She had waited for a time, hoping to see Banquo, but 
when he came not, she took an early opportunity to rise 
and steal away to her own chamber. 

Not that she slept. For hours she had lain wakeful 
on her couch, her thoughts busy — thoughts of Banquo 
— Macbeth — Malcolm, a strange trio from whom stranger 
fears were bred. 

And when Bethoc slept, her dreams were ill — so 
ill that she was glad to rise and escape from that night- 
mare-haunted room out into the morning sunshine. 

Oh, it was good to wander alone at dawning, through 
autumn woods, and dream of a love which had come to 
her in a spring-tide — so long ago, as it seemed — so long 
ago. 



FLEANCE ESCAPES 183 

Memories were busy, stirred by Banquo's tale, so that 
the woods around seemed lighter with a new glory to the 
eyes of a maid who dwelt on a lover's tale of vows remem- 
bered, hopes still cherished. 

A blackbird cried its warning to all the woodland tribe 
from a bank near. Bethoc paused, her hand upon the 
lobe of a giant beech. 

Footsteps were coming up the path towards the 
castle — men's footsteps — slowly shuffling — slowly 
shuffling. Knowing not wherefore, the girl's heart 
filled with vague foreboding. 

What footsteps were these that came towards Forres? 
Laggard steps, as though their owners dragged weary 
limbs under a weary burden. 

Workpeople perchance, carrying timber towards the 
courtyard, where it should be hewn into logs for winter 
fueling. 

Oh, the coldness of the winter — and the chill; but 
why should such strike at a girl's heart as she watched 
two men come into sight carrying a burden between them. 

It was at the burden Bethoc looked, and knew it to be 
no weight of timber. It was a man's body, and as she 
gazed, half swooning in terror, she noted how a man's 
hand hung down over the side of the improvised litter. 

There was a ring on that hand which she recognized. 
She had seen it last upon the finger of Banquo. 

With a supreme effortshe forcedherself to step forward, 
facing the men — rough kernes whose names she knew 
not. 

"Who is that you carry between you?" she asked, 
and her voice sounded then as the whistling of wind 
through dry reeds. 

The foremost fellow blinked at her owl-like, for the 



184 MACBETH 

morning sun was in his eyes and he did not recognize the 
speaker. 

"It is the Lord Banquo," said he, "who we found 
foully murdered in the forest but now, aye, and his 
servant beside him. An' ye be a woman, look not on so 
woeful a sight, for many sore gashes has the lord, and in 
each a death." But his warning came too late, for 
Bethoc had looked and seen that from which the screen- 
ing plaid had fallen back. 

A woeful sight indeed, as the kerne had said — a woeful 
and bloody sight. And this was Banquo! Banquo! 
Malcolm's friend, Duncan's faithful servant, Macbeth's 
. . . Macbeth's . . . Bethoc caught her hand to her 
throat to force back a scream of agony. 

In a flash she had seen another picture beside that 
of the hacked and murdered man lying there so broken 
and helpless — and the other picture was that of a dark 
passage, lit only by the flickering beams of aHantern, 
and a man and woman creeping back like guilty shadows, 
with blood-smeared fingers and frightened eyes. 

The men passed on — wondering, when they saw that 
young maid, with her black uncovered tresses and wide 
blue eyes, leaning there against the tree trunk, but 
neither screaming nor swooning at sight of that which 
had made strong men shudder. 

The lass would be the mother of gallant sons one day, 
they told each other, when they were out of ear-shot 
— but Bethoc stood there in the sunlight, and behold, 
the world was black before her! 

Presently, however, she roused herself. A voice 
called her — no human voice, but that of a dead man's 
demand. What of Fleance? Had she not promised 
Banquo to be his friend should ill befall? 



FLEANCE ESCAPES 185 

And ill had befallen. Had Banquo known it might? 
Had he seen the danger which had stolen upon him in a 
forest — no longer fair to Bethoc as the home of singing 
birds, but terrible as the stalking-ground of black- 
hearted murderers. 

And behind those murderers — Who? 

The girl shivered, drawing her plaid about her. 

Had Banquo died because he had once been the king's 
friend? Had the king hated him, as she heard he hated 
the Thane of Fife, who had ridden from Inverness 
immediately after King Duncan's murder, and refused 
to come to court or swear fealty to King Macbeth? 

Who could answer these things? 

Not Bethoc, indeed; and the young girl, rousing at 
length from her lethargy, raised her head, as though 
answering that voiceless call. 

She must find Fleance — if Fleance were alive — and 
save him. Instinctively she knew he would need to be 
saved. He who had deemed it necessary to slay the 
servant would not spare the son. 

But before she started on this wild search, which had 
no definite goal, she knelt down and joined trembling 
hands in prayer. 

God would guide her if she asked him. God would 
guide her and save Fleance. Yes, yes, she prayed that 
Fleance might be saved — that she might help to save him. 

Was the prayer heard? Sceptics may laugh, mockers 
may answer, "Nay, the matter was fated so to chance" 
— but Bethoc, looking up through the leafy canopy of 
trees towards the blue vault above her, thanked God 
with the simplicity of a grateful child, as she spied 
Fleance on the path before her. 

Then, rising, she went to him, knelt again and twined 
strong, loving young arms about him. 



186 MACBETH 

Poor child! he was himself but a ghost of the rosy, 
happy little lad who had filled the queen's heart with 
envy yesterday. His hazel eyes were red-rimmed with 
weeping, his cheeks were white and there was a great 
swelling on his left temple where he had struck against 
a rock in falling. 

He was dazed, too, with long unconsciousness and 
preceding shock. 

" Where am I?" he asked. "What has happened?" 
Then, seeing Bethoc's sad and pitying face, he laid his 
curly head down on her breast, and long sobs shook him. 

"It is not true," he moaned. "Bethoc, dear Bethoc, 
say it is not true that my father is dead? It was only 
a dreadful dream I had, that men leapt out to strike him 
down to death. Only a dream, that he cried out bidding 
me fly — so that I might live to revenge." 

His eyes dilated as he raised his quivering face to hers, 
seeking consolation, which, alas! she could not give. 

"My little Fleance," sobbed Bethoc; "oh, my little 
friend! If I could but give thy father back to thee." 

The boy clung to her in a paroxysm of dread. 

"You will not say he is dead?" he cried. "It was 
only an evil dream, dear Bethoc. I have often had bad 
dreams before, but he has been near to comfort me. 
Take me to him now. He is all I have — and I love him. 
I love him so." 

"Hush," implored Bethoc. "Fleance, thou must not 
weep. Think of thy father, all he would bid thee do 
and be. Be brave, as he was brave. Oh! do not cry, 
poor lad. It is true he is dead. The noble Banquo is 
dead — God avenge his murder. But be sure his dying 
prayer was for thy escape. He bade thee fly, Fleance." 

The boy closed his eyes. 



FLEANCE ESCAPES 187 

"Dead!" he whispered. "My father dead! My 
brave and gallant father! How could he go — leaving 
me behind? And yet — help me, Bethoc, help me to 
escape. I will escape. I will not be murdered too; 
and one day I will revenge as he bade me." 

A burning spot of color dyed each of the boy's pale 
cheeks; a sudden, unchildlike flash gleamed in his eyes. 
He quivered from head to foot, either in fear or hate 
— Bethoc could not determine which. 

But she was glad he understood that his father was 
dead — and he in personal peril. 

"Do not let them kill me too, Bethoc," he entreated. 
"My father told me often you were his friend." 

"Yes," said the girl, "your friend and his, and — and 
also the friend of Malcolm Canmore, he who should be 
. . . should be ... . But no! You would not 
understand that, poor babe — and all my heart aches 
for the wonder of how and where I shall safely bestow 
you." 

"I would I were in England with Prince Malcolm," 
sighed Fleance. "Yesterday, my . . . my father and 
I went down to the little village near here. There was 
a Flemish captain who was sailing for England today. 
My father gave him messages for Prince Malcolm; 
and when we rode away he said to me, half jesting, 
1 Shall we sail in yon ship tomorrow, boy? I think 
it would be safer.' Then he grew grave and would 
speak no more. And . . . and now he will never speak, 
because he is dead, and I would I were dead too, for 
I am so lonely — and so afraid." 

Nor could Bethoc hope to comfort him, for here was 
a wound beyond her healing — a wound which had riven 
deep into the child's heart, so that he would carry the 
scar to his grave. 



188 MACBETH 

But all these words of Fleance's had given Bethoc an 
inspiration which grew to definite shape, though many 
a difficulty hedged it round and threatened her with 
danger. Could she but contrive to get Fleance safely 
aboard the Flemish ship, all would be well. Its captain 
was evidently known to both Malcolm and Banquo; 
he would undertake the charge — and she was very sure 
that the orphan child would find safe asylum under 
Malcolm's protection. 

Those who had searched and found the father over 
night would be searcliing for and finding the son this 
morning. Within this forest, even now, the footsteps 
of murderers might be approaching. 

What if such foul-hearted villains found them as they 
stood here and leapt upon this pretty boy, slaying him 
before her eyes? 

So fear grew in her heart and had to be hidden for the 
child's sake. He must not know she trembled at the 
rustling of every dead leaf upon the pathway. She 
must hearten him by the proof of her own courage. 

"Listen, chick," quoth she. "How would you like 
to sail in that same ship to find Malcolm Canmore? 
Be sure he will save you from your enemies and teach 
you . . . teach you the way of revenge." 

The boy's eyes sparkled and he caught Bethoc's hand. 

"Let us go now," he urged. "You and I. Let us 
go now before our murderers come." 

But Bethoc shook her head. 

"Not now — or thus," she said. "Your enemies may 
be abroad, searching for you, poor babe. You must go 
secretly, if you go at all — and in other care than mine." 

Yet as she spoke, her heart ached with longing. Ah! 
if she could but go to England — and Malcolm Canmore. 



FLEANCE ESCAPES 189 

But that was impossible; and so, with brave reso- 
lution, she who was scarcely more than a child herself, 
set to the task before her. 

"You remember one Kenneth called Swift-foot?" 
she asked Fleance. "He brought the message of my 
stepfather's victory to King Duncan; thus much he 
told me, aye! and more too, for he, this honest kerne 
loves Prince Malcolm and your noble father. When he 
hears what I would claim of him in service he will be 
ready to do it. Thus you shall go to England." 

But Fleance, being very weary, hungry and sick with 
the pain of his aching head, only flung himself into 
Bethoc's arms weeping drearily, because she had said 
that she, his friend, could not come with him — and 
also because his dear father being dead, he was a very 
lonely and desolate little boy. 



CHAPTER XX 

A MESSAGE TO ENGLAND 

""IV^ENNETH!" 

[^ The kerne, squatting upon a stack of dried 
bracken, looked up with a start. 

It was a woman who spoke to him — but what woman? 
He was not the man whom bonnie-faced lasses were 
likely to come a-trysting, and there were shadows where 
he sat, so that at first he did not see her face. 

When he did, however, he was instantly on his feet, 
bowing before the Lady Bethoc. 

Such a proud little slip of a girl was this — a chieftain's 
daughter every inch, with her slender build and erect 
carriage. 

And there was something in the flash of the blue eyes 
that told Kenneth Swift-foot service would be demanded 
of him. 

Well! he would serve, it was a necessity of his state 
— but, if he prayed o' nights, the soldier's prayers were 
that he might be Malcolm Canmore's man. 

Bethoc seated herself on the stack of bracken, as 
though it were a royal throne, and beckoned Kenneth 
back to kneel beside her. 

"Lord Banquo is dead," said she in an undertone. 

Kenneth's rugged face grew grim. 

"Lady, I have seen him," he replied. 

"He was murdered," went on Bethoc, rinding speech 
more difficult than she expected. 

(190) 



A MESSAGE TO ENGLAND 191 

"That, too, I know," retorted Kenneth. 

The girl's eyes hardened. " 'Twas because he served 
Malcolm Canmore," she said; "but Kenneth — his son 
lives." 

The kerne glanced cautiously around. 

Rumor was already buzzing about the palace, and 
Fleance's name had been whispered. 

"The little lord," muttered the man; "the little 
lord." 

"Must escape," urged Bethoc, clasping her hands; 
"he has enemies, Kenneth. Those who sought the life 
of the father seek that of the son. But he must escape — 
and you must help me. Will you do this, Kenneth, for 
the sake of your old leader, Lord Banquo? for the sake of 
one who may be your new leader one day, Prince 
Malcolm, son of murdered Duncan." 

"They say," mouthed Kenneth, gaping, "that the 
son slew the father, but I wot it is a lie." 

"A lie!" Bethoc's tones were scornful. "Oh! 
very truly is it a lie," she mocked. "But tell me, Ken- 
neth, you will do this thing, even if death repays dis- 
covery?" 

"Death and I have been bedfellows too often, lady, 
for me to fear his shadow. What shall I do, who am but 
a poor kerne, with little wit, but for the slaying of 
foes and the carrying of a message?" 

"It shall be a living message you carry to the court 
of the English king. Fleance shall tell Prince Malcolm 
how his father died. I think one day red vengeance will 
flame upon a guilty land. But now there is haste. 
Canst have horses yonder by the blasted beech at the 
head of the glen tonight at eight? If so, we'll come at 
the appointed hour. Not before, since searchers will be 



192 MACBETH 

abroad, looking for the colt which fled when its sire 
fell." 

"I will be there," lady. 

"I thank you, Kenneth. Thence you shall ride to 
Findhorn, taking the circuit of the moors to avoid being 
seen. A Flemish captain, to whom Fleance will guide 
you, shall take charge of him. Having seen him aboard, 
on his way to England, return and tell me how you 
sped. You understand?" 

"Lady, no word has 'scaped me. Three years ago 
the noble Banquo saved me at risk of his own life in 
a fierce fight with certain gallowglasses from the western 
isles. The life he saved shall be offered in service to his 
son. There's naught in that but common gratitude." 

Bethoc smiled sadly. "A too uncommon virtue, 
good Kenneth," she replied. "Well, I must be going, 
for suspicion-flies buzz noisily in yonder castle, till I 
long to be some humble serf in a hut of wattle, yet in 
peace, rather than resting a weary head beneath a 
palace roof. There's disquiet at Forres." 

"They say a king was murdered there, lady." 

"Peace, fellow. I'll hear no talk of such. Shall 
Forres be haunted as Inverness was? Banquo, Ban- 
quo! Nobler than many kings, how ill a fate was thine! 
But we'll save the son, Kenneth, and he shall be our 
messenger to the prince." 

The fire of her enthusiasm inspired the soldier, who, 
stooping yet lower, raised a corner of her embroidered 
robe and pressed it to his lips. 

"Lady, I am ready," he replied huskily. 

Yet when Bethoc had gone, flitting stealthily back to 
the castle for fear of meeting those who might inquire 
her errand, Kenneth Swift-foot did not immediately 



A MESSAGE TO ENGLAND 193 

resume his seat on the stack of bracken. Instead, he 
slipped quietly round it and pounced like any mousing 
owl upon the man who crouched in deeper shadows. 

"So, so," he muttered, hauling at Cedric by the collar; 
"so you play the eavesdropper, friend. What business 
have you in this matter? " 

The villain he held twisted beneath his grip. 

"Have a care!" he squealed, "or you will be reckon- 
ing with the king." 

That set Kenneth thinking, and though he was no 
subtle arguer, he was a straightforward actor, so, seeing 
King Macbeth and Prince Malcolm at opposite ends of 
his duty, he made this matter safe by dealing Cedric 
such a blow as would have sent an ox down in the 
shambles. 

"Safe bind, safe find," muttered Kenneth with a 
chuckle, as he surveyed the unconscious figure of the 
glib threatener. 

"And till the little lord be fled, thou are best dumb. 
Heigh!" 

With a grunt he unfastened his own belt and that of 
his victim and lashed arms and legs securely; then, 
having fixed a gag in the fellow's mouth, he succeeded 
in pushing the limp body on to the top of the bracken 
stack, where he covered it carefully. 

"An' this were good shovelfuls of earth and that bed 
thy last resting place, it were better for the world," he 
apostrophized into deaf ears. "Well! sleep sound and 
awake thirsty. That's a benison which, being uttered, 
I'll remember what's like to follow and contrive to quit 
Forres for good and all before the king calls me to account. 
The king! The king — and Banquo. Why, I saw them 
fight side by side against the Norsemen, brothers in 



194 MACBETH 

heart and love. Yet today Banquo lies dead and mur- 
dered, whilst it is necessary the king should not know 
whither Banquo's son be fled. Well, well, well. I like 
not these murders and talks of murders, remembering 
Inverness and good King Duncan. Ah! if Duncan's 
son were king, I'd be a more loyal soul than now I am. 
As for yon hulking lumber, my dirk is hungry to let 
daylight into him. But it may not be done i' cold 
blood. Now for horses and a prosperous happening 
when Banquo 's son seeks English shores." 

What a day that was! Poor Bethoc was not likely to 
forget it. With a boldness which a wiser intriguer 
would never have dared venture on, she had brought 
Fleance to the castle and concealed him in her own room 
— that very room which her stepfather had once occupied 
and wherein King Duffus had been murdered. 

Here Fleance slept, outworn by weariness and pain, 
whilst Bethoc made plea of sickness to excuse her coming 
forth. 

And Nature abetted the trick, since wan enough was 
the poor girl after her vigil and distress, whilst dread 
brought sick faintness to her heart at times when any 
approached her room. 

Lulach was the most importunate, and had to be 
driven away with sharp complaining words, so that the 
boy went pouting and grumbling at his sister's unkind- 
ness. But Bethoc need not have feared suspicion, for 
who could have dreamt that the eagerly sought Fleance 
was hiding within the lion's den itself? 

So night's welcome mantle spread itself at last over 
the world. A friendly, quiet night, with glimpses of 
waning moonlight to show the way to two who sought 
it. No easy task for Bethoc, since none had yet thought 
of retiring to their couches within the castle. 



A MESSAGE TO ENGLAND 195 

Excused from supper by plea of illness, the girl waited 
till all had assembled in the hall below before creeping 
from her room. Fleance was beside her, his head and 
face concealed by a plaid, lest even a casual glance 
from some passer-by might betray him. Tiptoe they 
stole together towards the postern. What sentry might 
be on guard! If it were Colin, Kenneth's friend, all 
would be well. If not ... if not. . . . Bethoc gripped 
her dagger and wondered if for dead Banquo's sake she 
could strike a coward blow to save his son. 

From the hall near came the skirl of pipes. The king 
must be in gay humor tonight, and the whoop of dancers 
and the padding of light heels drifted to where two drew 
back into the darkest shadows of the passage. 

What was Bethoc's dread? Why did she make so 
sure that for the king to know Fleance were here, must 
mean the signing of Fleance's death-warrant? 

Her attendant had told her, when earlier she had 
brought her food, that the king was in bitter grief over 
the murder of Lord Banquo. 

Bethoc, recalling the same expressions of woe for a 
murdered king, felt her heart grow hard and scornful. 
So she hid Fleance closely, and none dreamed of where 
he lay or what tryst he would keep with Kenneth Swift- 
foot, since Cedric the black-souled had lain all day under 
the bracken on the top of the stack, raging and cursing 
in impotent and dumb fury at his plight and the knowl- 
edge that Macbeth would have given a large fee to the 
one who told him whither Fleance rode that night. A 
sentry stood by the postern. Bethoc pushed her com- 
panion back against the wall and advanced alone. 

"Good Colin?" said she, and gripped her dagger, 
wondering what it would feel like to stab down through 



196 MACBETH 

flesh and muscle, praying such stabbing — if necessary — 
would not be fatal. 

But Heaven spared her the necessity. 

"Kenneth is without," muttered the sentry, opening 
the door. "Go swiftly, return swiftly. There's death 
abroad this night." 

Hand in hand the two glided by, leaving a soldier who 
had loved Duncan to curse a tyrant. 

Bethoc's arms were around Fleance as they stood 
close to the blasted beech at the head of the glen. Beside 
them were Kenneth and the horses. The moon sank low. 
It would be a dark journey. 

"God and His fair saints keep you, little friend," 
whispered Bethoc, kissing the boy passionately. "When 
. . . when you see Malcolm Canmore tell him all you 
know of what has passed, and the part poor Bethoc 
has played. Tell him ... I wear the ring ... he 
gave me. I do not forget." 

Fleance drew his head back the better to gaze into the 
speaker's face. 

"Yes," he replied, "I will tell him all, dear Bethoc. 
And he will love thee as I love thee, for all thou hast 
done. One day, too, we shall return — and I shall still 
be thy little sweetheart grown big, since a sweetheart 
never changes in his love for his lady, however long 
the years are, does he? And I love thee, Bethoc." 

His warm young lips clung to hers till Kenneth inter- 
posed by lifting him bodily on to his horse's back — a 
proceeding which hurt the boy's pride woefully. But 
Bethoc stood watching them out of sight as they rode 
very slowly and carefully down the glen, watched 
through a mist of tears, whilst one hand rested against 
the bosom of her gown where a bronze ring with inter- 
woven serpents forming a delicate spiral lay concealed. 



r 



CHAPTER XXI 

AMBITION FOILED 

it Y AD Y, beware! " 

It was Colin the sentry who warned.* 
Bethoc drew back. 

"Wherefore?" she breathed. 

It was still dark — the dawn would not break for an 
hour. Kenneth would have returned — to tell her how 
his mission had sped. 

But Colin thrust his face close in the gloom of the 
passage. 

"An hour since," he breathed, "a man sought the 
castle. One Cedric, a devil-tarred rogue, who had — 
for what purpose I wot not — business with the king. 
So urgent was he, and so threatening, that I let him in 
— and scarcely was he on his way to rouse other guards 
to tell the king his business, than Kenneth came to the 
door. 

"Tell the lady," he said, "that the cat is on the track 
of the mouse, but the last-named is safe aboard and on 
his way ere this to England; but, since I helped the mouse 
out of the cat's claws, I'd best away to my own hole. 
So the lady may not see me in this life again. God 
rest her and give her peace at least concerning that poor 
mouse. So he went in a flash, lady, and I have given 
the message, though I pray you say no word of me if 
the matter's told abroad." 

He was back at his post as he spoke, whilst Bethoc, 

(197) 



198 MACBETH 

all in a tumult of joy and fear, in which joy weighed the 
heavier, groped back towards her room. What meant 
this riddle? 

Some rogue who knew or guessed too much was here 
to see the king. To tell him how Banquo's son escaped, 
maybe! If so, what would happen? 

There could be no rousing of the palace. No swift 
pursuit. These were secret doings — and if the king knew 
and approved Banquo's murderer, he could not set him 
openly after the son. 

Well, well! The new day would show many things — 
and at last she could sleep now that Fleance was safe. 
Ah! her little friend — how tender had been his kisses. 
And she had fulfilled her trust .' . . 

"Halt!" 

A lantern's light flashed across her eyes from the open 
door of her chamber, and only the commanding grip on 
her arm checked the scream which rose to her lips. It 
was Macbeth himself who stood there, wrapped in a long 
dark cloak, his hair unkempt, his dark eyes wild with 
fear. 

He had been searching her room — the room where a 
king had died — but he had not found what he wanted 
— had not found what Cedric had told him he might 
possibly discover. The murderer of Banquo had not 
heard all that Bethoc said to Kenneth Swift-foot when 
he played the eavesdropper, and the hastily aroused 
king had come for a swift vengeance, thinking and caring 
for nothing but the frustration of Ilda the witch's 
prophecy. 

Fleance must die. Banquo's only child should die — 
even if his own royal hand dealt the dagger thrust. 

But he had not found the victim for whom he came in 



AMBITION FOILED 199 

search. The room was empty. Half crazed by nervous 
fears and anger he turned to see his young stepdaughter 
before him. 

Bethoc, the frail instrument of fate, who had frustrated 
his will! How his dark eyes gleamed as he caught her 
shoulder. 

" Where is the boy?" he hissed. "Where is he? 
He — Banquo's son, whom I must guard — guard and 
cherish. Fleance — where is he? " 

What devilment of mockery was in his glance!' How 
his face convulsed. Self-betrayed he stood, and Bethoc 
paused, cold in horror before him as suspicion shot up 
into swift certainty of condemnation. 

But she had inherited her parent's reckless fierceness 
of spirit in addition to a tender womanhood, and answered 
the angry king at once. 

"Fleance is safe," quoth she. "Safe!" — she laughed 
mirthlessly — "from those who murdered his father. 
Are you not glad, my liege? " 

Macbeth's grasp relaxed, his swart face grew gray with 
anguish, as a man who hears the sentence of fate against 
himself. He shrank back from the girl who faced him 
like some bright accusing spirit. 

But he did not reply. What use indeed? He had 
read on her face that she spake truly. Fleance had 
escaped. He who was Banquo's son lived in spite of 
pursuing enemies. Nay! was already beyond his power. 

The king turned slowly away; for the time despair 
had gotten him too fast about the throat for him to be 
able to curse this fragile child who had outwitted and 
defied him. 

Did he ask why Bethoc's eyes accused him? Did he 
ask how much was known to her of his dark deeds — 
and if to her, to whom besides? 



200 MACBETH 

It was a black hour for Macbeth, King of Scotland, 
lord of all his desire. 

But away across the Hard Moor traveled Kenneth 
Swift-foot. He would not dare to return to Forres, 
since Cedric the murderer had succeeded in reaching the 
king before the quietus of death had been dealt him. 

Kenneth regretted that he had not dealt that quietus 
at first, but the idea of dirking an unconscious man had 
been repugnant. 

And now the tables were turned. It was Kenneth 
who must travel south, seeking the country of Fife and 
its friendly Moormor Macduff. 

Did not all Scotland know how great in love were this 
Macduff, Prince Malcolm and the dead Banquo? 

It was dark as the soldier crossed the desolate heath, 
where the mists gathered thickly, only to be scattered 
by the rising wind. A moaning, sobbing wind — no 
storm-blast, but a weary complaining as of a lost souPs 
crying there in the gloom. 

Kenneth hastened as swiftly as he might across those 
haunted moors — where fear lurked for him even more 
than in the danger-fested precincts of the castle. Were 
they shapes that stole out of the darkness as he passed — 
swift coming, swift going? Were those whispers that 
the wind bore across the desolate heath — if so, whither 
had they come? 

From far, mayhap — if peasants were to be believed 
when they spoke of this moor as the meeting place for 
witches. 

Hark! Was that a laugh, weird and eerie-like, that 
traveled down the wind? A laugh which echoed on 
the haunted sands of Seville or beneath the not tree of 
Benevente, or shrilled perhaps in demoniac glee from 



AMBITION FOILED 201 

the heights of the Blocula and the Brocken, where 
witches and evil spirits danced in wildest revelry, mock- 
ing and cursing in uproarious mirth when ill had been 
successfully wrought on fellow men and women. 

Laugh who laugh will — but surely it were better to 
weep than to laugh like that with the agony of lost 
souls ringing through the mirth with a death-stab. 
Laugh who laugh will — but witches' glee is an evil thing 
and only hides the horror of self-damnation, with the 
shriek of some dread familiar to echo it. How the wind 
moaned and 'plained as it swept down the pine-crested 
ravine, from which mocking whispers were tossed back 
towards the boulder-strewn heath. Whisperings, mut- 
terings and the nameless fear of some giant, bat-winged 
death brooding around. Gray forms merged themselves 
in the gray shadows, uncanny, shapeless forms, tossing 
lean arms upwards with the writhing mist-wraiths. 
Groveling, cringing forms, which crouched like beaten 
hounds before that bat-winged death, which in the 
darkness towered majestic — a queen of hell, perhaps, 
some pale-browed Hecate, come to call her servants to 
account. How the whispers grew! Yet the moors 
seemed empty. Kenneth the soldier had gone on his 
way. It was the dark hour before the dawn — no stars 
shone overhead. In such an hour the pale queen of hell 
might well arraign her subjects. 

Had they failed in her death-dealing command? 
Where was Macbeth? Still a king? A king poised on 
the giddy heights of ambition, but trembling on the 
brink of a fathomless abyss. Still — a king! Proud 
in his self-security. So secure that he never looked to 
spy a threatened danger. And hell-hounds were on his 
track. What whispers were these? Why! had not a 



202 MACBETH 

whisper damned Macbeth already? u All hail, thou 
that shall be king hereafter." What fruit those words 
had borne already. Lol were they not the seed from 
which had sprung the murder of a noble king? — the 
bloody end of brave Banquo? — the hell-fires which 
already lapped the soul coveted by the realms of dark- 
ness? 

But the lure was not complete. Macbeth was king; 
but even now felt the sting of fear lest — himself an arch 
plotter — he should be in turn plotted against. So there 
must be a further tale told to lull him to a false security, 
yet inspire blacker deeds, before hell yawned and pale 
Hecate claimed him for her own. 

And who should tell the tale so well as the three weird 
sisters who had met Macbeth, the triumphant general, 
on his return from loyal battling for his king, and by their 
hailing made him traitor, damned by his own acts of 
murder and regicide. 

So now again the snare must be set, the lure spread 
for one who should spurn fate, defy death and so press 
on, wading through the blood of the innocent to his own 
confusion. 

No wonder the wind wailed over that evil-haunted 
heath, sobbing and moaning as it swept on towards the 
black outline of forest, where it scattered autumn leaves 
in a golden rain upon the sodden turf beneath, and thus 
onward still further to where the grim old fort of Forres 
stood stark against the starless sky, and where, at sound 
of those moaning wails, a man roused himself from the 
nightmare of his dreams to see a white figure crouched 
against the stone wall near the unglazed windows, ruddy 
tresses streaming over its bowed shoulders, whilst a wan 
face looked out into the black night with wide eyes 



AMBITION FOILED 203 

which saw, mirrored in the darkness, a dead man's 
figure lying upon a bed, with the peaceful, noble features 
of Duncan — the murdered king. 

Oh! it had seemed so easy a thing, that swift revenge, 
and yet with what noiseless, hounding steps another 
vengeance had pursued those who had planned it. 

And Gruoch the queen moaned in echo to the moaning 
wind, whilst Macbeth the king thought of dead Banquo 
and shuddered — then of Fleance fled — and cursed. 

Yet why should he fear? Was he not the king who was 
ready to crush all foes beneath his tyrant heel? But 
yonder on the blasted heath the mists had melted into 
a clearer darkness, out of which a gray light broke 
presently to eastwards, whilst with the mists had fled 
those gray, intangible forms with their fluttering rags, 
streaming hair and wildly tossing limbs. Aye, fled as 
the mist wraiths — but whither? To some dark pit of 
Acheron perhaps, to cast their witches' spells by which 
Macbeth the king was to be snared to his bitter undoing 
and Hecate — the pale queen of hell — appeased. 

And, as it were, from some dim distance still shrouded 
by night, floated back the echo of a mocking and very 
evil laugh. 

So had Ilda the witch laughed when she and her sisters 
had hailed Macbeth and Banquo. 

So Ilda the witch laughed again now that Macbeth 
was king — and Banquo dead. 

But it was of Macbeth alone she thought. 

The man who had won his ambition. 



CHAPTER XXII 

"MACDUFF MUST DIE" 

^T "T THAT of Macduff?" asked the king gloomily, 

tyty as he leaned back in his chair, surveying 

the young officer — Seyton by name — who 

stood before him. "Hath the Thane of Fife obeyed my 

command?" 

Seyton looked up quickly. 

"My liege," he replied, "the Thane of Fife has sent 
his men, commanding them to use every diligence so 
that no occasion of complaint might be given to your 
majesty, but — the Thane came not himself." 

Macbeth rose to his feet and began pacing to and fro. 
He was thinner than of yore, and the stormy years of 
kingship had served to streak his dark locks with prema- 
ture gray hairs. His eyes appeared sunken, and burned 
with a strange inward fire; the hand which clutched at 
his mantle was claw-like in its emaciation. 

Yet the indomitable will was the same as ever. The 
will which caused his subjects to fear him though they 
hated him for a tyrant. 

He had long since put his cherished scheme into 
execution, and the strong castle built on high Dunsinane 
hill was very near its completion.* And he had been 
rigorous in exacting the help of his Thanes in the building 
of his mountain eyrie. 



* See Raphael Hollin Shead's Scottish Chronicle. 
(204) 



"MACDUFF MUST DIE" 205 

The carrying of the necessary materials to such an 
eminence was in those days a mighty labor, but difficulties 
had not daunted Macbeth, and though his lords and 
their dependents might curse his behest, they were 
forced to obey it. 

But now for the second time it was the turn of the 
Thane of Fife to bring his serfs to assist in this matter 
of building, and though Macduff had sent his men, it 
appeared that he himself had not responded to his over- 
lord's bidding, since well the crafty Thane knew that 
Macbeth suspected him as a sympathizer and secret 
adherent of the still exiled sons of Duncan. 

To and fro paced Macbeth, working himself up into 
one of those fits of passion which were becoming of more 
and more frequent occurrence, since he was keen enough 
of wit to realize that his was a waning authority and that 
everywhere his subjects cried out in secret against the 
tyranny of his government. 

And now an ugly note had been struck, which might 
be the prelude to a sudden and dangerous upheavel unless 
it were nipped in the bud. 

The Thane of Fife, a powerful and popular chief, had 
dared to openly defy his authority and set his command 
at naught. 

For reasons best known to himself, the king had set 
his heart on Macduff coming in person to obey his behest. 

And Macduff, alleging no reason for not complying, 
had simply refused. 

"I perceive this man will never obey my command- 
ments till he be ridden with a snaffle," he muttered; 
"but I shall provide well enough for him/ 5 and as he 
spoke he cast askance glances towards young Seyton, 
who stood motionless awaiting permission to withdraw. 



206 MACBETH 

But it was the king's pleasure he should wait, since he 
had more to say on this matter. 

Macduff had disobeyed his implicit command. And 
disobedience meant rebellion — rebellion meant a traitor. 

These were conclusions soon arrived at, and Macbeth 
came to an abrupt halt opposite Seyton. 

"He has not obeyed me," he said hoarsely. "He has 
not obeyed the king." 

Seyton flinched. He would have liked to point out 
that the erring Thane had sent his men and so was 
almost within the strict letter of obedience, but he under- 
stood his master's every mood and knew that it was 
almost as much as his own life was worth to argue now. 

So he waited — guessing what was coming. 

"To fail in obedience to a king," went on Macbeth, 
drawing himself up to his full height, "is treachery — 
and the reward of treachery — death." 

A knell seemed to strike with the words. Was it his 
own? 

"The reward of treachery — death." 

That sentence had once been pronounced on a Thane 
of Cawdor. What of that Thane's successor, who now 
sat on the royal throne of Scotland? 

He went on more hurriedly. 

"A king must see far and wide," said he; "personal 
feeling has nothing to do with his duty. Traitors to 
him are traitors to his country — and for his country's 
sake they may not be spared. Macduff hath merited 
death." 

Seyton was not subtle at argument — and he was one 
of the comparatively few who were really loyal to the 
king. So he still waited for Macbeth to proceed, without 
showing any particular signs of dismay at such drastic 
sentence on the erring Thane of Fife. 



" MACDUFF MUST DIE" 207 

"Yes," continued Macbeth, more loudly, as he re- 
sumed his nervous pacing, "Macduff must die. Aye! 
nor shall the sentence be long delayed. He is the canker- 
worm within this fair realm of mine who holds traitorous 
intercourse with young Malcolm, the bloody parricide 
who shelters himself in the English court. I have been 
too lenient, Seyton, and my kingdom suffers through 
it. But this must end, aye! shall end with this conspir- 
ing traitor. But we must walk warily. Summon 
him hither with smooth words; bid him to our council — 
and so by guile trap the red fox before he seeks some safe 
burrow. We'll write our commands presently, and you 
shall take them to the Thane's castle. We'll go softly . 
in this — but none the less surely. Macduff must die." 

His anger seemed to have cooled, and he even laughed 
quite mirthfully when he dismissed Seyton. As the 
young officer went out he did not observe how a boy 
shrank back from the curtain screening the door towards 
a dark alcove. Had he done so he would have recognized 
Lulach, the queen's only son and his stepfather's heir 
to the Scottish throne. 

Macbeth sat pondering after Seyton had left him. 
He felt a great relief at his decision. He had never 
favored Macduff, who, more than any other of the great 
moormors, had stood aloof after his accession to the 
throne, apparently forgetful of former friendship. 

Macbeth never doubted that the Thane of Fife had 
his suspicions, but after Banquo's death he had felt sure 
that suspicion could never be backed by proof. Never- 
theless he decided that on the first opportunity he would 
again seek out those weird sisters who had appeared to 
him on more than one occasion since he mounted the 
throne, and in whom he placed implicit trust. 



208 MACBETH 

"Macduff shall die," he kept muttering; "afterwards 
I do not think Rosse and Lennox will be so fond of whis- 
pered converse and aloof looks, i" am the king. If they 
do not love me they shall fear me — as I — merciful saints 
. . . as I . . . fear myself!" 

And he passed a trembling hand across his lips. But 
Lulach, lingering in the dark alcove, was wondering 
what the Thane of Fife had done to merit that condemna- 
tion. For himself the lad had a pleasant remembrance 
of the big, burly Thane, who had come on more than one 
friendly visit to Inverness in the old days, which were 
growing remote to Lulach and yet still pleasantly tinged 
as days when he had romped and played more freely than 
now, since Bethoc had been so much gayer and more 
light-hearted and his mother had taken more notice of 
him, and herself had been far brighter and more interested 
in the life of every day. Of late years Bethoc had grown 
so grave and silent, and even when she played it was with 
the half-heartedness of one who finds no amusement in 
the sport. 

Such listlessness vexed the high-spirited Lulach, 
who scolded his sister with all the displeasure of a 
spoilt child, but when she stole away weeping he would 
be sorry and wish he were back at Inverness again, 
and that life went on as it did in happier days before his 
stepfather was King of Scotland or Bethoc had learned 
the way of tears. 

Poor Bethoc! She was seated on a low parapet of 
the stone bridge spanning the woodland burn, where her 
brother found her presently. It was a favorite spot 
of hers when she wandered forth to indulge in those 
long reveries of which the impatient Lulach complained. 

Sad years had these been for the girl, who watched 



"MACDUFF MUST DIE" 209 

with wistful eyes to see how friends and loyal country- 
men were hounded from their native land, driven forth 
by a tyrant whose harsh rule grew ever more oppressive. 

Surely the time had come for Malcolm Canmore, son 
of a well-loved king, to return and claim his own? 

Yet Malcolm still remained at the English court, 
whither so many of his compatriots had lately gone. 

The prince waited for the time to be ripe to strike his 
blow for regaining a kingdom. If the English king would 
but help him in that task, all might indeed be well. 

If England would but help. 

That was the cry which rose not only from the lips 
of an exiled prince, but from those many loyal friends 
who planned and plotted for his restoration to his right- 
ful throne. If England would help ! Bethoc echoed that 
wish as she sat there, wrapped in thought, her dark 
head bowed, her face — grown older, sadder than of yore 
— bent to gaze into the rippling waters below. 

So Lulach found her when he came running through 
the woods, searching for one he knew would be ready 
to listen to his news. 

"Bethoc," he said, panting, as he reached her side, 
and resting his arm on the parapet, whilst he stared up 
into her face, "just now I lost my ball playing with 
young Culen — so I ran within, fancying it had fallen 
through the window into the passage, and I was right. 
It had rolled almost to the door of the king's room — 
I should never have believed it." 

"Yes?" murmured Bethoc absently. She was won- 
dering whether Malcolm recalled as clearly as she did 
the spring day when she had stood on the banks of the 
Ness amongst purple and yellow iris. 

"And," went on Lulach, dropping his voice to a lower 

14 



210 MACBETH 

key, "as I stood to search for it among the folds of the 
curtain, I heard the king speaking to Seyton within. 
They were strange words, sister. They made me afraid." 

Bethoc started, bringing her gaze back to look into 
gray eyes — so like what her mother's had once been. 

If Lulach were afraid he did not appear to be so — and 
his sister was half inclined to refuse to listen to tale 
bearing. But Lulach gave her no chance. 

"He said," he went on breathlessly, "Macduff must 
die. And there was more too, about summoning the 
Thane hither with smooth words, bidding him attend the 
council. And then again — quite clearly, Macduff must 
die. And I was sorry, sister, because the worthy Thane 
was kind to me when I was a little lad." 

He was not a very big one now, this ill-fated son of an 
ill-fated mother, with his ruddy curls and handsome 
features; but Bethoc was in no mood to smile over those 
last words. There was the one sentence drumming in 
her ears in sudden clamor of sound. 

"Macduff must die." 

Her lips compressed, her eyes dilated as she sat there 
immovable looking down upon her brother. 

It was characteristic of them both that Bethoc put no 
question as to Lulach's having made some mistake. 
It was not Lulach's way to make mistakes — he had the 
ears of a hare and a retentive memory; moreover, he 
never embroidered a tale. And this tale needed no 
embroidering. 

It was a single lightning flash casting lurid brilliance 
over a tragic picture of the near future. In Macduff 
centered the keystone to the kingdom's fate. 

And . . . Macduff must die. 

Bethoc's voice sounded far off and unnatural to her 



"MACDUFF MUST DIE" 211 

own ears as she spoke presently, rousing herself as from 
the effect of some stunning blow. 

"Lulach," she said, "you must not repeat what you 
have heard to anyone — not to anyone. You must, 
above all, not let the king know you have heard his 
secret words. If he knew I ... I think something 
terrible would happen." 

Lulach gave a low cry and caught his sister's hand. 
He had seen her weep many times, but he had never seen 
such tragedy as he now read in her eyes. 

"Do not say that," he implored. "I thought it 
dreadful that the kind Thane should die; but do you 
think there might be worse?" 

Somehow the shadow which had crept into being on 
a terrible night at Inverness cast its bane upon his 
innocent soul. Things did happen in these days which 
were enough to make fear come. 

But for once Bethoc was glad to inspire dread. It 
was thus only that she could hope to save a dear friend. 
If Lulach chattered of what he had heard, the king would 
act precipitately and — 

Bethoc shivered as she reiterated her command. 

"No, no — nothing ill will happen if you are silent. 
But I dare not think of the terrible things which may 
come about if you talk — or tell the king — or even the 
queen, our mother." 

Lulach shook his head. 

"I do not want to tell anyone but you," he replied. 
"It was because I was sorry and I thought we might 
. . . might have asked our lady mother to entreat the 
king for the Thane's life. But I do not suppose she 
would, for she will not often listen now when I ask her 
things, but weeps and mutters as though she were very 
sad at being a queen. Why is it, Bethoc?" 



212 MACBETH 

But Bethoc could not answer. All she could do was 
to hold the boy by both shoulders and repeat again and 
again — 

"No, you must tell no one — not even our lady mother, 
or something very dreadful will happen — so dreadful it 
would almost break my heart." 

And at this Lulach promised with tears and pro- 
testations that he would tell no one at all of the words 
the king had spoken to Seyton — for he loved his sister 
dearly, though, through early over-indulgence, he would 
be masterful and dictatorial with her at times. 

Then Bethoc, having won her way and knowing she 
could trust the boy, smiled with the gladness of one 
who, after long waiting, has a task to perform. 

Yes — a task to perform for friendship, country — and 
love's sake. 

Love's sake — and purple and yellow iris bloomed 
amongst the rushes near the river bank. 



CHAPTER XXIH 

A GIRL TO THE RESCUE 

A LARK sang a melody of spring and sunshine 
as it beat its way upwards on small brown wings 
1 towards the blue vault of the heavens. There 
was a gladness around which brought frisking rabbits 
from their burrows to disport themselves on the slope 
of the glen, where bluebells spread a dainty carpet for 
the straying deer, which went timidly in dread of some 
whirring shaft of death. Presently a twig snapped and 
the rustling of last year's leaves sounded under a man's 
stealthy footfall. 

Enough for rabbits and deer, which vanished as though 
by magic, the rabbits tumbling headlong back to their 
burrow, the dappled deer fleeing up the length of a 
springtide glade long before the man came into sight. 
A man who by dress and bearing was a chieftain of proud 
position; yet he walked carefully, if not stealthily, 
glancing to right and left as he emerged from the glen 
with its fairy-like beauties of fern, foliage and flowers, 
and came out upon the moor. 

To his right rose a steep hill with great boulders, piled 
into the semblance of a rude cairn, about the lower part 
of the slope. 

Towards these piled rocks the man hastened, glanced 
round once more as he reached their shelter, then 
vanished from sight as mysteriously as scurrying rabbits 
or fleeing deer had done. 

(213) 



214 MACBETH 

The moments slipped by. Then a blackbird uttered 
its warning cry to all the woodland creatures, and 
another man, appearing on the outskirts of the trees, 
swept the moors with a long, careful glance and ran 
light-footed towards the rocks. 

So, at brief intervals, came some half-dozen or more 
from different directions, but all converging towards the 
same spot. 

The last to arrive was Rosse, who of late had lost the 
suave, gay air of the born courtier, and wore an expres- 
sion of strained anxiety — not unnatural, since, being 
cousin to the Thane of Fife's young wife, some measure 
of the Thane's ill favor at court had fallen on him — a 
jealous humor of the king's, which the nobleman re- 
sented bitterly. 

He stepped nimbly across the loosely-piled boulders, 
bending low to creep within the cave, which, hidden by 
the craft of Nature, made an excellent meeting-place for 
those who would converse in secret. A goodly gather- 
ing of proud lords was here, amongst them Lennox, 
Caithness, and Menteith, all of whom had sore grievance 
to declaim in having in turn been put to the heavy 
charges of helping to build Macbeth's strong fortalice 
on Dunsinane Hill. 

But today there was more definite and more serious 
talk going forward than mere grumbling. 

Things had reached a climax, as all these chieftains 
knew, in Macduff's refusal to attend the work in person, 
and though the king's purpose had not reached their 
ears, they knew Macbeth's humor well enough to under- 
stand he would not overlook the slight to a command 
meant to break his nobles' pride. 

"Macduff did well and ill," quoth Lennox, as the 



A GIRL TO THE RESCUE 215 

assembled chiefs fell to discussing the situation. "Well, 
in that the king hath no right to treat his great nobles 
as though they were base-born serfs and must be taught 
the tenure on which he holds his crown; ill, in that he 
risks his life now in coming to explain the deed and his 
reason for it — an explanation which should only have 
been made from the front ranks of young Malcolm's 
army." 

The speech was received by a murmur of dismay from 
most of those assembled, whilst Rosse started forward. 

"The Thane of Fife comes hither?" he questioned, 
"after refusing to adventure his person in the king's 
vicinity at Dunsinane?" 

"There is no mistaking the message or doubting the 
messenger, who reached me last night," replied Lennox. 
"But Macduff is not quite so reckless as you may sup- 
poser It is hither he comes. Here he will await news 
as to whether it is safe to proceed to the palace. If he 
receives warning of danger he will return to his own 
castle, whither even Macbeth's vengeance cannot follow 
him, since the king knows that to strike openly at a 
Thane of Macduff's standing would be to strike a dam- 
ning blow at his own throne." 

A murmur of assent rose from the rest of the nobles 
with the exception of Rosse, who exhibited signs of the 
liveliest uneasiness. He was personally devoted to 
Macduff and loved the latter's beautiful young wife — 
his own cousin — with a brother's tender affection. And 
he, more than the rest, had Macduff's confidence, so 
knew how gravely his cousin-in-law regarded the king's 
malice and secret hostility. 

"There is some other reason for Macduff's coming," 
he exclaimed. "Maybe he has had intelligences from 



216 MACBETH 

England. It is possible that Prince Malcolm has gained 
King Edward's ear and won English allies, who shall 
strengthen our faint hearts in shaking off the oppression 
of a tyrant." 

"Hist," whispered Menteith. catching at the other's 
elbow. "Who comes?" 

There was a breathless pause of suspense as those — 
who were little less than conspirators — heard the scrap- 
ing of rock against rock without, as though beneath 
some heavy tread; then, as all within shrank back against 
the walls of the cave, instinctively drawing their dirks, 
a whisper was heard naming the name of Rosse. 

"It is Hay," cried the latter nobleman, stepping for- 
ward. "Have no fear, comrades, this is a friend." 

He broke off sharply as two figures emerged into the 
light of a single torch thrust into a rocky niche at the 
back of the cave. 

"A woman?" growled Lennox — and ungallantly 
cursed a sex which, from the days of Eve, had never 
learned discretion of tongue. 

But before more inquiries could be made the woman 
had flung back the plaid which she had drawn over her 
head. 

It was Bethoc, the queen's daughter. 

Varied exclamations broke from those assembled. 
Surprise and vexation were the dominant notes, since, 
though Bethoc's sympathies were known, she was too 
closely allied by blood to the usurper to win full con- 
fidence in the ranks of the disaffected. 

One, however, who knew more of her love to Malcolm 
than the others, stepped to her side, and Bethoc, looking 
up, half-frightened by the stern glances of those around, 
saw Rosse's keen blue eyes fixed kindly on her. 



A GIRL TO THE RESCUE 217 

"Lady Bethoc," he questioned, "what errand brings 
you hither?'' 

Young Hay sprang impetuously forward, feeling no 
doubt answerable at having betrayed the secret of his 
friends' meeting place. The lad was a strapping youth, 
barely twenty, but carrying himself with a man's courage. 
He was one of those Hays of Errol who, fifty years 
before, had left their ploughbeam to lead their fleeing 
countrymen back upon pursuing Danes, and thus, by 
their gallant rally, winning victory from defeat. He 
spoke eagerly now. 

"My lord," said he, "the lady has news which she 
insisted on bringing to you all at once. When you hear 
that which she tells you shall judge if we acted well in 
coming." 

He stepped back — and Bethoc, her hands clasped, 
her face showing flushed and resolute in that yellow 
flare of light, spoke high and clear, as became Gilcom- 
gain's daughter in a moment of crisis. 

"The king hath told Seyton," said she, "that Macduff 
must die. Already that messenger will be setting out 
for Kennowney to trap the Thane into coming hither. 
And . . . and to come will be to die — as Banquo died 
... as others have died." 

The tragedy in the young voice rang clear, whilst the 
girl turned piteous but steadfast eyes on the gathered 
group of men. 

"You ask yourselves," she went on, "if you shall 
trust my news. Did Banquo trust me? I ween he did; 
if not, he would not have asked me to befriend young 
Fleance. Did Fleance trust me? I wot it well, else had 
he never 'scaped to England. Does Malcolm trust me? 
Why! if you doubt it, see this ring with which we 



218 MACBETH 

plighted troth the day before his father died. I tell 
you without shame or maiden hesitance that I love 
Malcolm Canmore, and would use all my wit, my 
strength, my very life to help him back to a throne which 
has been seized by one whose deeds make me grow faint 
and sick in horror remembering he is my mother's 
husband." 

The passionate words went home to the hearts of her 
listeners. The girl's beauty and evident sincerity, 
her simple but bold statements could not be mistaken. 
And the news of the part she had played in saving 
Fleance — heretofore only known to Macduff — -further 
inspired their confidence. 

So tongues were loosened, discussions, arguments 
and suggestions were brought forward, to be checked 
by a sinister hint from Hay. 

"If the king plots a fresh deed of treachery," said he, 
"he will have open ears and eyes for the plots of others. 
Even when we left the castle he was sending for you, my 
lord — and you — " 

He turned to Rosse and Menteith. "It may be he 
will send for others — and if he discovers so many are 
abroad, is it not possible he may hear the whisper of our 
rumor — Macduff comes hither? So shall we be undone, 
and the Thane of Fife sacrificed to indiscretion." 

"It is too late to stop the Thane in coming," sighed 
Caithness; "but it shall be our business to see he doth 
not reach the palace, now we know what welcome awaits 
him there, thanks to this fair lady." 

He raised Bethoc's little hand and kissed it in graceful 
homage, and so busy were all with their praise of. this 
brave messenger that they did not turn to see a shadow 
fall across the threshold of the cave or a man's face peer 



A GIRL TO THE RESCUE 219 

suddenly in upon them. Both shadow and face had 
gone a second later, and when Menteith — the first to 
leave the cave — came out into the sunlight, he saw no 
trace of human creature, only in the distance some cattle 
wandering over the moors and a red deer raising its 
antlered head as it paused on the outskirts of the wood. 
But Cedric, the murderer, crouched low between two 
mighty boulders — and he smiled when he saw the young 
chieftain Rosse come forth, leading by the hand Bethoc, 
the queen's daughter. 



CHAPTER XXIV 

THE MIGHT OF LOVE 

CSf^lING!" commanded Queen Gruoch — and her 

^^ daughter obeyed. 

^^ Sweet songs of soothing melody, with rippling 
cadences and tender sentiments, such as Bethoc always 
chose when she perceived her mother's troubled mood 
was on her. 

Thus David sang of old to demon-haunted Saul, but 
it needed sweeter melody than Bethoc could produce 
to bring comfort to the queen's storm-tossed soul today. 

She was leaning back in her great carved chair, a 
splendid tapestry for background, her own gown rich 
in splendor, a gold fillet fastening the white head dress, 
which covered her ruddy tresses. But the beautiful 
face was worn and wasted, the great gray eyes had a 
haunted expression of fear and unrest in their wandering 
gaze, her whole expression and attitude was of one who 
seldom sleeps the deep, peaceful sleep of health. She 
closed her eyes as Bethoc sang, resting her head wearily 
against the carved back of her seat. In her lap lay 
embroidery work, scarcely attempted. She was too 
tired to interest herself in anything — and yet at night 
she knew little rest. 

Only when her husband consulted her in affairs of 
state or spoke of disaffection amongst his nobles did she 
show that she was queen of Scotland still, a fierce, quench- 
less spirit born to rule, if necessary to destroy. 

(220) 



THE MIGHT OF LOVE 221 

Kneeling on a velvet cushion near was Lulach, turning 
over with mischievous ringers the contents of a carved 
box. Being behind his mother's seat she did not notice 
his occupation, and Bethoc was dreaming as she sang of 
1 ve and greenwood trysting. 

But presently the ever-restless queen checked her. 

"Stop," she commanded. "My head is burdened by 
pain. Leave me alone. I would sleep . . . sleep .... 
Yes, leave me alone; bid Fenella that no one comes 
anigh me — not even the king." 

She fell to whispering beneath her breath, and Bethoc 
fancied she caught the name of Macduff. 

Had the king told her mother of his intention towards 
the Thane of Fife? She was about to curtsey and 
retire, beckoning to Lulach, when the latter scrambled 
to his feet and ran fearlessly to his mother's side, holding 
something in his extended palm. 

"See, lady mother," he cried, "how it sparkles. 
May I have it for my own? It was only in yonder old 
box." 

Bethoc was standing near and gave a low exclamation 
of admiration. It was a diamond ring which glittered 
as it lay in the boy's hand — though neither he nor his 
sister knew that it was a king's dying gift to the woman 
who should be answerable for his murder three hours 
after its bestowal. 

But the effect on their mother was startling. The 
queen's hands slid forward, gripping the arms of her 
chair till her knuckles gleamed like ivory. She half rose, 
whilst her eyes, fixed on that glittering gem. seemed 
literally to start from her head in terror. 

"The ring he gave me," she muttered, whilst a moisture 
broke over her brow and a gray pallor spread in her 



222 MACBETH 

cheeks. "See how it winks its solemn eye at me. A 
gift of death — from death. A gift of doom. How well 
I see the donor now! Blood on his kindly face, blood 
about his heart. He slept — but he did not waken. See 
— it winks at me — the ring he gave. What message 
sent Lord Death by thee? A curse! Yes — see, there's 
blood upon it. Blood!" 

Her voice rose to a scream — a frenzy seemed to shake 
her. She rose, still clutching at the chair, her eyes fixed 
on the ring which Lulach held with shaking fingers. 

" Mother!" gasped the boy. "What ails you? It 
is naught but a ring. See, I will put it back. What can 
frighten you in a ring? Oh, I am sorry I took it. But 
— Bethoc — see our lady mother is ill — she swoons." 

He flung down the ring, which seemed to burn him 
now as some bauble of fate, and ran to summon the 
faithful Grizel, whilst Bethoc, stretching out her arms, 
caught the swaying figure. 

The girl was almost as white as the unconscious queen 
as she laid the latter gently down upon the ground. 
What did such sudden terror portend? Had her mother, 
her mother, played some active part in the tragedy at 
Inverness — and, if so ... if so ... . 

But Bethoc fiercely put the suggestion from her. 
No, no, no. Whatever part Macbeth had played in 
that grim tragedy, which had robbed Scotland of a king, 
her own mother could have had no cognizance or share 
in it. Though — too late — she might have guessed the 
truth — for Bethoc was thinking of the two figures which 
she had seen stealing back along the dark passage to 
their rooms on the night of the murder. There . . . 
had been blood ... on her mother's hands. Grizel 
eame, summoned by the frightened Lulach, and leaving 



THE MIGHT OF LOVE 223 

the queen in the care of the faithful attendant and a 
leech, Bethoc crept away, glad to escape from the room 
— anxious, if possible, to escape, too, from the torment 
of her thoughts. As she crossed an ante-chamber Rosse 
met her. 

The nobleman appeared to be in haste, for he was 
breathing heavily and his face was very gloomy. He 
halted at sight of Bethoc, hesitated, and then with small 
ceremony drew her aside into a small alcove. 

"We have been betrayed," he muttered gloomily. 

Bethoc started. Was that suspicion in Rosse's eyes? 

"What do you mean?" she questioned. "Tell me 
quickly." 

"Yes," replied Rosse. "I will tell you because I 
trust you, Bethoc. But what shall I say? There must 
have been indiscretion somewhere, for at least the king 
knows Macduff rides hitherward this evening." 

"The king . . . knows!" 

"Aye, which is more important than searching, as 
some would do, as to where he got his knowledge. But 
certain it is he does know — and prepares accordingly. 
With only partial knowledge of our trysting-place, he 
plans to keep us from our friend. A council is sum- 
moned—it were death not to attend it. That council 
will sit all night, and Macduff, believing all to be safe, 
will seek his absent friends at the palace according to 
agreement." 

"He must not come." 

Rosse became yet gloomier. 

"It is impossible to prevent it. None will be able to 
quit the palace and reach the cave where we were to have 
met with him. The king watches us all. Not even Hay 
escapes his vigilance. In an hour's time the council is 



224 MACBETH 

summoned. Before dawn Macduff will be here. He will 
not go forth." 

Bethoc drew herself up resolutely. 

"The Thane of Fife will not come here," said she. 
"I swear to that. I myself will go and keep vigil in 
yon cave, whilst my woman, who can be trusted, will 
give the king intelligence of my sickness. The queen, 
herself being ill, will not trouble to inquire too closely 
as to my complaint." 

Rosse stared at her. Suspicion had gone from him, 
but he was skeptical. 

"Lady," said he, "you could not go alone through yon 
woods to such a trysting-place. You would swoon with 
terror ere you had traversed half the way." 

But the color flamed in Bethoc's cheeks as she smiled. 

"You do not know me if you speak so," she replied. 
"I go, my lord. Do not fear. If the Thane of Fife 
reaches yon cave before cock-crow he shall learn why he 
may not proceed to the palace." 

Still Rosse hesitated. 

"You are brave indeed," said he, "to conceive so 
daring a thought — but it is impossible you should per- 
form this thing. A hundred dangers " 

"I would face a thousand for such an object," answered 
Bethoc, her voice vibrating in subdued passion. "Think 
what is at stake, my lord — and rather call me coward if 
I should shrink for an instant from such a task. Let me 
prove the trust, for which I thank you, and carry my 
message to your friends. She whom Prince Malcolm 
loves does love's service. You understand?" 

Perhaps he did, or it may have been that time pressed 
too hard for Rosse to stay in argument. He must take 
this girl at her word and thank some watchful saint 



THE MIGHT OF LOVE 225 

for the inspiration, which he was half convinced she would 
obey. 

And on that half conviction Macduff's hopes of 
salvation from a tyrant's vengeance rested, since it would 
be impossible for any of the Thane's friends to quit the 
palace that night. 

Yet Rosse went heavily on his way, even though he 
carried with him the picture of a proudly drawn young 
figure, firmly compressed lips and blue eyes which shone 
with high resolve and courage. 

"If her strength permits, Macduff may yet ride to 
safety," thought the young noble; "but he will ride with 
death's hounds at his heels till he is out of Scotland. 
The king plays a desperate game — and behold the crisis!" 
It did not inspire him with comfort to know the crisis 
was for the moment in a woman's hands. 

But what man ever yet has fathomed the secret of a 
woman's strength when love inspires it? 

Bethoc, the queen's daughter, thought less of the 
horrors of that perilous walk than of a lover's face when 
he should hear what she had done to save his friend. 

And it was her part to send brave Macduff with the 
message of Scotland's chiefs to Malcolm, son of Duncan. 
Aye, had they not sworn that the time for vengeance 
and for justice was ripe? 

Macbeth the tyrant should be dragged down from the 
high place he had reached by such murderous means and 
Scotland's rightful king be proclaimed in his place. 
But the chief concern of blue-eyed Bethoc was that that 
king was he who ruled her heart. 

Malcolm! She had been but a child when he bade 
farewell to her under the shadow of frowning Inverness. 
She was a woman now. Yet the marvel was that the 

15 



226 MACBETH 

seed of love had grown to a fair and beauteous blossom 
in her heart, inspiring and filling her whole starved 
nature. 

Who else but exiled Malcolm loved poor Bethoc? 

And tonight she served Malcolm in saving the Thane 
of Fife and all those rebellious chieftains who went so 
unwillingly to the king's council chamber. 

It was untimely of Lulach to wish her to sing to him 
that hour of all others, and the boy was persistent too, 
irritable at being gainsaid. He would not believe his 
sister's plea of weariness or sickness. She was idle, 
that was all. Bethoc escaped his importunities at length, 
but left the lad sullen — and, what was worse, suspicious. 
Fenella, one of the queen's younger women, had spoken 
in his hearing of the possibility of Bethoc having a lover 
whom she try s ted in her solitary wanderings. Lulach 
thought of this speech now and nodded a wise head. 
How brightly Bethoc's eyes had shone — and her cheeks 
were rose-red. It had been a lie to say she was weary. 
And Bethoc must have had strong reason to lie. 

Thus it was that Lulach, rendered spiteful because his 
whim had been refused, spied later, a slim, muffled 
figure creep down the dark, winding passage and out 
through a side postern, where a soldier named Colin kept 
sentry guard. 

"So after all," whispered Lulach to himself, "Bethoc 
the virtuous hath a lover. I think I shall go and tell 
Fenella, and we shall see what teasing will best torment 
my good sister. A lover! And who will he be? Scarce 
worthy of Gilcomgain's daughter, I ween; so the matter 
shall be searched out." 

And the boy strutted back along the passage, aping 
the swagger of his elders in ludicrous fashion as he went 



THE MIGHT OF LOVE 227 

in search of pretty Fenella, who, as it chanced, was for- 
lorn and cross-grained herself that evening since young 
Seyton, her lover, was in waiting on the king instead of 
in attendance on his mistress. 



CHAPTER XXV 

THE THANE OF FIFE 

SPECTRAL boulders, gray and grim, only dimly 
seen by starlight — but even such outlines were 
welcome to behold after the frantic groping through 
darkling woods. 

Bethoc's hands were still knit in prayer as she glided 
along over the stretch of heathery waste towards the 
spot where those shapeless stone sentinels showed her 
the place of watching. 

Would he come — this Thane of Fife, who was Mal- 
colm's friend? Aye! and was, if persuasion could move 
him, to be his comrade's messenger to the deliverer 
to whom Scotland looked for rescue in her bitter throes 
of thraldom. Long moments of suspense were those 
for Bethoc. A terrible vigil, here in this lonely place 
of which ill tales were told. Those were days when 
some superstitious legend clung to every hillock, every 
glen, every valley of a wild land, and Bethoc had heard 
of the three weird sisters who held orgies of terrible 
nature out on these waste places. She could have 
wept for very relief when through the silence came the 
dull thud of horse-hoofs cantering over the heather. 

Whence came the rider — and whither bound? 

Bethoc stood upon the broad slab of granite rock, 
looking southward. A secret traveler she might opine, 
since no escort preceded him with flaming torch. 

For an instant she hesitated, then drawing the lan- 
tern from beneath her cloak, she held it high in signal. 
(228) 



THE THANE OF FIFE 229 

She had found the lantern as Rosse had promised 
in the cave. It was to be the beacon, beckoning Mac- 
duff thither. 

Having shown the light, she covered it again with her 
cloak and stood waiting. 

If it were not he who should come she might thus 
escape. A stranger would not know of the cave and 
might count the brief flare of light some phantom 
flicker. 

The horse-hoofs had ceased to beat their rhythmic 
measure. Silence brooded in the darkness around. 
Bethoc, crouched now behind the tallest crag, listened 
for the word which told of a friend. 

It came, stern, clear, monosyllabic. 

"Inverness." 

Scarcely suppressing a cry of joy, she rose, raising 
her lantern again as she stepped forth. 

"The prince," she answered, giving the countersign. 
Macduff stood amazed. 

He had expected to see a gathering of stern men who 
should meet him in council. Instead, the yellow rays 
showed him a girl, pale, beautiful, her dark tresses only 
partly concealed by a heavy plaid, her blue eyes clear 
and steadfast, her lips a-quiver like those of a frightened 
child. 

"Lady Bethoc," gasped the Thane. "You here? 
What means this? Where are the others?" 

He did not name the latter, for was not this the 
queen's daughter? 

She stretched out a slim white hand, touching his 
shoulder. "Come within the cave," she replied. "I'll 
tell you all. I, who am the messenger of Rosse, Lennox, 
Caithness, all the rest of your leal friends, who should 



230 MACBETH 

have been here to plead as Heaven grant I, one poor 
maid, may plead — for Scotland." 

Macduff was still silent through sheer amaze, but he 
took the little hand, holding it in his own strong ones 
with the protective fondness of a father, whilst he blamed 
himself for recalling who had mothered this brave child. 

"Wait till I secure my steed against straying," he 
said, "and I will come. There should be news indeed 
since it needs such a messenger." 

Bethoc sighed. There was too much tragedy in this 
try sting to permit of smiles. Yet her heart was warm 
as she thought of Malcolm's approval. 

The next moment Macduff was beside her. He waited 
for her to speak. 

At first Bethoc's tongue halted over the tale. It was 
so hard to tell it, knowing that he who again would play 
the treacherous murderer was her mother's husband. 
Yet it had to be told — and Macduff listened. 

"So," he muttered, "I too was to have gone the way 
of Duncan and noble Banquo. Aye! and of others 
whom this cruel tyrant suspected of knowledge. Ah, 
Scotland, Scotland, what evil days are these for thy 
sons. Murdered! with no right or chance to strike 
blow for blow. Swept aside into the dark abysm, 
leaving my sweet wife husbandless, my pretty chicks 
without a father's care. Yet I grow selfish in my anger. 
What were my death against our Scotland's greater 
wrongs?" 

Bethoc wept softly. "Oh! heed you not," she 
pleaded, "what all this tale voices? Or must I repeat 
the message which should by this have reached your 
heart? Those who should have been here this night 
would have cried it more convincingly, yet you shall 



THE THANE OF FIFE 231 

listen to me, forgetting my parentage, hearing in my 
weak words the voice of Scotland. Fly you must, 
worthy Thane, but not in selfish or purposeless flight. 
Make your feet wings till they reach that English court 
where Duncan's son, Scotland's rightful king, pines in 
long exile. Macbeth's days of power are numbered by 
his own tyranny. The end must come, aye, and with 
the end, a new beginning which you shall show Prince 
Malcolm how to make. Scotland calls. But she must 
call by your voice, Thane. In seeking safe asylum, you 
go but to bid Malcolm prepare to claim his own. The 
time is ripe. Nobles and people with one voice cry to 
be freed from this oppressor, whose secret murders blot 
our history's page. You shall not linger on your way, 
Macduff. Scotland has need of you, the flaming torch 
to light the darkness of Scotland's night and proclaim 
the dawn." 

She ceased and silence followed. 

When Macduff spoke, his voice was deep and stern 
with emotion. 

"What of my wife and babes?" he asked. " Would 
you have me leave them protectorless? Macbeth plans 
my destruction, yet he seeks it by the assassin's dagger. 
He dare not arraign Macduff and smite him in broad 
light of day because he will not labor, as sweating Israel 
did of yore, to pile bricks and stone for the palace of his 
tyrant foe. In my own castle and province I can defy 
the king, but, having fled to England, what of those I 
leave without a head and guard? Tell me, lady, what 
answer you can make here?" 

"Alas!" sighed Bethoc, "if you could measure the 
king's treachery I would measure my answers to your 
plaint. All I can do is to point you to the past, Thane. 



232 MACBETH 

Banquo knew the king's mind towards him and had no 
desire to die. Yet he died. Others, too, have likewise 
died. Macbeth's anger is a poisonous breath which 
slays unseen. And if you fall beneath it, what then of 
wife and babes? There would be no mercy shown to a 
dead foe's family. But if you reach England there's 
another chapter before you. Sir, in serving Scotland — 
ever the wider duty and greatest claim to Scotland's 
sons — you will draw the curtain of safety, not only 
above your own wife and bairns, but those of others 
too. Under a tyrant's rule none can be safe. When 
Malcolm's crowned at Scone there'll be no haunting 
whispers to chill men's hearts; no tale of secret murders 
and black treachery." 

Macduff sighed. 

"You reason well, sweet maid," said he. "And 
plead Scotland and young Malcolm's cause as my own 
heart does. Whence was such loyalty bred?" 

He looked curiously at the face which the faint rays 
of lantern light showed him. A face noble in its in- 
tegrity, as well as fair of feature. Moreover, the face of 
one who knew the meaning of suffering. 

Bethoc's clear eyes met her questioner's without 
flinching. 

"In years gone by," she replied, "Prince Malcolm 
was my lover. I love him still." 

Ah! the faith, the constancy of such a love — which 
might have seemed merely the fancy of a child. 

Macduff stood mute before such a confession. He 
understood now, for had not Marjorie, his wife, shown 
him the sweet nobility of true womanhood? 

And what of Malcolm himself? Did he, in exile, 
cherish a deepening affection for the girl who was ready 
to champion his cause against Nature's own dictates? 



THE THANE OF FIFE 233 

The Thane of Fife held out his hands and took those 
of his young companion. 

"Lady," said he with emotion, " forgive me for having 
put such a question. Yet I'll not regret it, since this 
mutual love shall bind us closer in a cause which has 
personal devotion to egg the love of country." 

She answered by her tears, yet pressed her point with 
true womanly persistence. 

"Then you will go," she urged. "At once you'll ride 
for the coast, and there take ship for England? For your 
own life's sake — so fiercely sought — for those you love 
and who love you — for Scotland and for justice, you'll 
flee but to return — with Malcolm?" 

Her voice rose joyously. It seemed so easy to bridge 
the abyss and gain the farther shore of desire. Already, 
for Bethoc, her lover stood, crowned King at Scone. 
She forgot herself in the glory of that vision. Forgot — 
for a brief space — the secret fear which stole panther- 
footed upon her during sleepless nights, concerning the 
doer of that deed of regicide at Inverness. 

"Aye!" cried Macduff, fiercely. "I'll flee but to 
return. Not the base coward, slave to his own fear, but 
the messenger of those who travel in sore bondage. The 
hour has come at last when Macbeth shall learn the 
justice of heaven is sure though it hath seemed to tarry. 
I will go and voice these cries in young Malcolm's ears, 
so that with England's ready aid we may return in 
strength and firm resolve to execute judgment on a 
traitor. Tell my friends this, lady, so they be prepared 
when Malcolm's trumpet-blast summons them to his 
banner, to come to the work they plead to be accom- 
plished." 

Bethoc's breast rose and fell in deep-drawn breath 



234 MACBETH 

of excitement, her eyes kindled, her cheeks flamed. 
Truly was she daughter to Gilcomgain the Fearless that 
night! Had she been called to it, she would have 
snatched shield and broadsword in her own hands, and 
gone forth to battle for him who came to save Scotland. 
He whom she ever thought of as the straight-limbed 
gallant lover of a brief spring- tide. Oh ! how her pulses 
leapt at the thought; how her heart sang as the Thane 
of Fife reared his shaggy head and swore by a great oath 
to do his task, however hard. 

And hard it was, as Bethoc might have guessed. 
Since in far Kennoway this man had a fair and well- 
loved wife and dear babes, for whom he feared as those 
fear over whom intangible presentiment flings her 
sombre shroud. 

But there was no time for such thoughts as Macduff 
might have cherished as he stood there, resolved, yet 
diffident, roused to action by the clear call of this young 
girl's message and news. 

Macbeth was prepared to slay the man who had dared 
to disobey his command. And the Thane of Fife knew 
that the parting of the ways had come. 

"See!" gasped Bethoc suddenly, as they stood to- 
gether at the entrance to the cave. "What lights are 
yonder? Men come this way with torches. They come 
in search — of you — of you, my lord. We are betrayed!" 



CHAPTER XXVI 

MACDUFF ESCAPES 

THE Thane of Fife looked in the direction his 
companion pointed. Sure enough, the flare of 
torches showed men, some on horseback, others 
running, all moving in a direct line towards the cave. 

The search, if search it were, was definite, the danger 
immediate. Some one must have betrayed them. Yet 
Macduff never once suspected the faith of his companion. 
He knew her to be true when she told him she loved 
Malcolm Canmore. He recalled the parting between 
a boy and girl on the shores of Inverness years ago. 
Yes, the daughter of Queen Gruoch was no traitress, 
whatever ambition had made of her mother. 

But Bethoc continued to speak rapidly. 

"We are betrayed/' she said; "the saints know by 
what means. But you must escape, Thane. See, it is 
not too late. Ride, ride, for love of Scotland, love of 
truth, love of your* own dear ones who perish through 
you. Ride, ride — and the dawn shall find you safe, by 
heaven's grace." 

Macduff had reached his horse's side. 

"They will pursue," said he grimly. "Little hope I 
wot for escape." 

"Nay," moaned Bethoc, "I will detain them. Whilst 
you ride under cover of this blessed shroud of night, 
I will keep the lantern a-flicker, and as they come 
will play will-o'-the-wisp in yonder woods, thus luring 
them from the scent." 

(235) 



236 MACBETH 

"And you?" he asked, bending from the saddle. 

She did not answer directly. 

"When you see the prince/' she pleaded, "tell him 
the tale and show him how Bethoc only grieves that 
the service is so small. My life would be but a poor 
offering for my love. Also — if you remember — tell him 
I wear his ring, though, if ... if he hath forgotten me, 
say nothing at all — of me." 

"Could he forget," replied Macduff, raising her fingers 
to his lips, "I'll bring the torch to flame in the dark 
cells of his memory and show him the lodestar which 
must help draw his feet to Scotland and a kingdom 
which all men covet." 

But those last words Bethoc did not hear, since the 
speaker was already spurring away into the darkness, 
carrying with him a tender thought of the kingdom of 
his own heart, where fair Marjory reigned supreme. 

As for Bethoc, she stood alone, yet undismayed, 
watching the flickering lights which danced hither and 
thither over the dark moors. 

It was Cedric, the murderer of noble Banquo, who led 
the king's sleuth-hounds; but it was young Seyton, 
Macbeth's most trusted officer, who commanded the 
company. 

Alack for the best ordered schemes ! Bethoc's extreme 
of caution had been thwarted, because she could not 
spare time to sing an idle song to a captious brother. 

For thus it had fallen out. Lulach, agog with the 
news of Bethoc's secret flitting, had carried his tale to 
pretty Fenella, who, delighted to find a demure lady 
could play the coquette in such fashion, had repeated 
the story with pretended horror and dimpling smiles to 
Seyton, who had, however, read a very different meaning 
into the Lady Bethoc's adventure. 



MACDUFF ESCAPES 237 

Inquiries had resulted in further proof of plotting, 
and Bethoc's woman had to confess that her mistress 
was not lying sick a-bed as was supposed, but had gone 
out into the night. With this came Cedric's story of 
the lady being seen in company with Rosse and others 
near a moorland cave, so that in less than an hour Seyton 
had unraveled as much of a tale as sent him hot-foot on 
the track of the queen's daughter and the man who 
almost to a certainty was the Thane of Fife. 

Bethoc watched the flare of smoking torches growing 
ruddier and brighter, showing the figures of those that 
held them. Running kernes and cantering horses moved 
forward out of the darkness like some procession of Fate, 
and the girl, with her little lantern beside her, watched 
their progress. 

She knew that that single ray at the cave's entrance 
was the common goal of all who approached. They never 
so much as dreamed of the man who had slipped away 
into the darkness, traveling southward. 

Presently, however, wrapping her plaid about her, she 
ran, lantern in hand, towards the woods. They would 
follow, she knew, and the delay meant a longer start for 
Macduff. 

She could hear the hoarse shouts and oaths of men as 
they reached the cave, and, finding it empty, followed 
her, having caught a glimpse of the twinkling, will-o'- 
the-wisp light. She must keep up the chase as long as 
possible! 

Yet, alack, in this she was not very successful. 

A hasty flight up a narrow glade brought her face to 
face with a group of men standing on the outskirts of the 
wood. She heard Sey ton's exclamation and turned to 
retrace her steps — but it was too late. Two of the 



238 MACBETH 

kernes had caught at her plaid and Seyton himself was 
beside her. 

"Lady," he said sternly, whilst the men started off 
down the glen in search of her suspected companion, 
"the king hath news of a strange trysting. Where is he 
who shall give explanation of this business?" 

She was unnerved and spoke hurriedly. 

"The Thane of Fife is not here," said she. "You 
waste your time in vain search. Let us return to the 
palace." 

"The Thane of Fife!" echoed Seyton, in well simulated 
surprise. "Surely it was not he who came hither as a 
thief in the night?" 

Bethoc's eyes blazed. 

"Speak truth, sir," she retorted. "Was it not he 
you came to seek? He whom your master has com- 
missioned you to slay?" 

He looked at her curiously. What did all this accu- 
sation mean? It seemed that others beside the king 
had spies in the palace. 

But if Macduff were warned, there must be hotter 
pursuit, and if talk rose concerning the Thane's death, 
there would be the scandal of this midnight tryst to hang 
excuse for swift vengeance upon. 

"You speak strangely, lady," he replied. "In truth 
we came to bid you return to the palace, since your 
brother spoke of how you stole forth unprotected and 
alone." 

So Lulach was at the bottom of the betrayal. She 
herself had blundered in permitting his suspicion. 

Bethoc could have wept in sheer dismay. But for 
what purpose? 

Seyton was already in the saddle, calling his followers 



MACDUFF ESCAPES 239 

about him; the grouped torch-bearers showed a strangely 
fantastic scene, with black-browed Cedric, chief amongst 
the sleuth-hounds, in the midst. 

"The Thane must have ridden south," said the latter 
hoarsely; "but not long since. " 

Seyton nodded. 

"His strange discourtesy must be explained/' he 
replied. "To come thus far to such a tryst, and then 
return without word of explanation or act of homage to 
the king, smacks of the traitor. In the king's service, 
friends, we must ride in haste and induce Macduff to 
return with us, so that the king may hear the meaning of 
such wayward conduct to one who has ever held him in 
love and esteem." 

"And the lady," suggested a younger officer; "she 
cannot return alone to the palace." 

Seyton 's smile was enigmatical. 

"Nay," he retorted" smoothly, "that is very true. 
You shall be her escort, Eocha, and on return, if the 
king is not a-bed, you shall crave audience and tell him 
of the night's adventure. Tell him also that by morn I 
hope to bring the Thane of Fife to tell him in person the 
reason for such a visit as he has paid tonight. For the 
rest, you shall all keep your tongues from wagging, lest 
they hereafter forget the way of speech." 

The last words had an unpleasant significance in them 
which was not lost on the hearers. 

But beneath her plaid Bethoc clasped cold fingers 
in wordless prayer. 

If Macduff were taken! If Macduff were taken! 
The four fateful words beat in upon her weary brain 
with the monotonous rhythm of galloping horse-hoofs 
which gradually died away into silence. 



240 MACBETH 

Southwards the grim chase was pursued. Hunters 
and hunted fled through the dark night — but lo, yonder, 
a new dawn broke. 

A gray dawn for the woman who must play the weary 
part of waiting — not knowing what the end of that night's 
drama might be. 



CHAPTER XXVII 

A DREARY VIGIL 

*t TJOOR, gallant beast/' muttered Macduff sadly, 
* "thou hast given the most thou hadst to give 
for thy master — life itself. And I claimed it — 
for Scotland. Is the claim vain?" 

He was stooping as he spoke over the dead body of 
his horse, whose heart had broken under the stress of 
that wild night's ride. 

Dead! Aye, poor Viking would never gallop more 
over those purple moors where he now lay stretched in 
the rigid stiffness of death. 

Macduff straightened himself, casting a quick glance 
around. Morning light showed him the distant pursuers, 
as, from the heather-crowned hillock, he could see far 
over the moors. Was there no escape? If so, he must 
find the means quickly. 

The Thane of Fife knew enough of Macbeth 's vengeful 
tyranny to understand that failure now meant failure 
for all time. Death as swift and far less merciful than 
that which had overtaken poor Viking here would be 
his reward for a reckless defiance of the usurper's 
authority. 

In that flight from the neighborhood of Forres he had 
burned his boats. 

And now this final disaster had befallen him. Without 
a horse, how could he hope to flee oncoming Fate? 
Close by towered the great cliff known as Kincraig 

16 (241) 



242 MACBETH 

Point. If he had been here an hour since, he might have 
hoped to take boat and safely reach the southern shores 
of the Firth of Forth. But before this could be accom- 
plished Seyton and his men would have reached the 
coast. 

A song sang in musical, rollicking tones sounded 
incongruous enough to the desperate man, yet he turned 
instantly to see the singer — a lean-limbed, sun-blackened 
fisherman, who came pattering bare-footed from the 
shore. 

The fisher stopped short at sight of the man standing 
beside a dead horse and eyed the twain suspiciously. 

Macduff moved forward. 

"Good fellow," said he, with that winning grace so at 
variance with his rough exterior, "will you serve a 
man in need? An' you have a wife and bairnies you will." 
And he glanced as he spoke towards the little valley 
where the tiny fishing village was shown in a cluster of 
untidy huts. 

"Who are you who ask?" questioned the man, watch- 
ing as a lynx to read the riddle of the speaker's eyes. 

There are moments when caution is a dangerous 
superfluity. 

"I am the Thane of Fife," answered Macduff. "I fly 
from the unjust vengeance of the king." 

The man's whole expression changed, suspicion 
vanished, though the hot anger of sympathy flashed 
over his face. He dropped to one knee, raising a corner 
of the Thane's plaid to his lips. 

It was enough — Macduff had no leisure to listen to 
deep-throated curses on a tyrant. 

"The anger," said he grimly, "which even now 
overtakes me. Nor will I seek the shelter which would 
be vain against such searchers as yon." 



A DREARY VIGIL 243 

And he pointed to where some seven riders could be 
seen approaching over the moors. 

But Ian the fisher sprang to his feet. 

"Come/' he bade, assuming command, "and I will 
show you a hiding place which will baffle the keenest eyes 
and yet jeopardize no one's safety." 

He led the way down a winding path, and Macduff 
followed him, since the instinct for self-preservation is 
strong in all, and this man had others to think of beside 
himself. Yet he could not help wondering whether it 
would not have been better to Wait and face his foes, 
since what possible hiding-place was to be found on that 
bleak coast? 

But Ian drew him on hastily, bidding him follow up 
the rocky cliff known as Kincraig Point, till to his 
astonishment he found himself standing at the mouth 
of a small natural cave in the rock. 

"You will be safe here," quoth Ian confidently, "till 
I and my fellows can procure a boat to take you across 
the Firth. Do not fear discovery, lord. The king's 
men will not learn the secret of the gulls and a few poor 
fisher-folk who love the name of Macduff."* , 

Again he stooped to kiss the Thane's plaid, then went 
leaping down as nimbly as some mountain goat, so that 
when Seyton and his followers reached the headland 
nothing was to be seen but a single fisher busy with his 
nets — and a dead horse stark on the moorland. But the 
sight of that horse was welcome to Seyton, who might 
well fear a bootless ride and the carrying of an empty 
tale home to Forres. 



* The cave is called Macduff's Cave to this day. It is said that on 
the accession of Malcolm to the throne, Macduff induced him to make 
this little village into a royal burgh to be named Earlsferry. 



244 MACBETH 

"Here lies his horse," said he to one of his followers; 
"be sure the rider is not far off, since he would not be 
rinding a second mount in these wilds." 

Ian the fisher was singing at his toil, and silver fish 
lay gleaming on the sands. He merely gaped when a 
soldier caught him roughly by the shoulder, demanding 
whither the rider of yon dead horse had gone. 

Ian shook his head. 

"Nay," quoth he, "there was no rider on his back, that 
will I swear by St. Fillan's self. The poor brute came 
staggering across the moors, and fell just where you see 
it be. Doubtless, the master who rode it to its death 
lies back upon the moor in some deep gully or upon the 
heath — though you are like to know more of the matter 
than I am." 

For answer the soldier dragged the speaker back to 
where Seyton stood frowning as he directed his men to 
commence their search. But Ian knew well enough 
that to falter in his tale might mean his own death, and 
he had no fancy for an early grave. So he played the 
simpleton well enough, stating his facts and drawing his 
conclusions, so that almost against his will Seyton was 
fain to believe him. 

"Though we will search yon village," said he, "and 
return once more after seeking proof of what you suggest. 
You have reason to tremble, fellow, till the Thane of 
Fife is in our hands." 

Ian jerked his head in affirmation, but he showed no 
dismay, only the quiet stoicism of the wholly innocent. 

But he sang no more songs that day, and not for 
several hours did he return home to seek a safe comrade 
to help him in a perilous task; and by then Seyton 
and his men were assured that the Thane of Fife was 



A DREARY VIGIL 245 

nowhere near Kincraig Point, the little fishing hamlet 
whose inhabitants were left all a-gape at the madness 
of the king's men. 

And during those long hours, Macduff had spent a 
dreary vigil in a drear spot — the home of nesting cor- 
morants and gulls, but of no living human being before 
now. 

Thought was busy in the Thane's breast during that 
long prisonment as he looked first back then forward 
into past and future. 

What pictures were those set before his musing eyes? 

A picture of a strong man and brave soldier led astray 
by ambition's snare. The friend of Banquo had been 
his hero too — the gallant Macbeth, leader in many a 
victorious fray. A son for Scotland to acclaim. Yet 
now, how high he sat and how low he had fallen! Was 
ambition satisfied? The Thane of Fife thought of the 
face of the terror-haunted man who had peered at him 
through the shadows of an early dawn that morning at 
Inverness, and told himself — no. 

Ambition, fed by crime, had become a ravening 
harpy, destroying her nourisher. 

And to the Thane of Fife that harpy's eyes were the 
eyes of the woman, now queen of Scotland. A woman's 
doing! Aye, thrice aye, quoth Macduff to his own 
heart, for he looked still farther back and thought of 
the work of Kenneth the Grim and Gilcomgain perishing 
in flames before his young wife's eyes. But wherefore 
should the woman's vengeance have fallen on the inno- 
cent? Naught could excuse the ruthless murder of 
gracious Duncan, his murderer's guest. 

Then from such thoughts of a black past, Macduff fell 
to painting the future after the colors of his choice. 



246 MACBETH 

Malcolm Canmore should be king. The tyrant should 
fall. All should be peace and happiness in fair Scotland. 

A sigh shook the Thane's lips. Again he dreamed — a 
dream nearer his heart this time. Strong and rugged as 
was his nature, there was a deep underlying tenderness, 
which showed itself in devotion to his beautiful young 
wife and children. He loved them, aye! how he loved 
them, and felt his heart-strings wrung at thus leaving 
them alone without being able to take farewell. 

But such farewell, besides bringing danger on these 
dear ones, would also endanger the mission entrusted 
him by his fellow nobles. The mission to bring Malcolm 
Canmore and, if possible, English aid to drag a usurper 
and tyrant from his throne. 

Duty's clarion voice called. The lives and safety of 
other wives and children besides his own, the welfare 
of his fellow-countrymen, all hailed him to England. 
Marjory herself would have bade him go, but he could 
not keep indulging in a fair dream of his return when he 
should come, a victor, beside a conquering and rightful 
sovereign, with duty performed and naught but reward 
to be accepted. Then what reward would Macduff ask 
but to ride in hot haste to the Maiden Castle and take 
sweet Marjory and his children in his loving arms! 

Without the cave came the monotonous murmur of 
waves, the shrill shriek of the sea-mew presaging storm. 
Ah! his vision of golden peace had not been realized yet. 
Between it and the present rolled days of danger and 
exile. 

Brave man though he was, the fugitive sighed to think 
of the near future. 

A figure blotted out the faint light at the entrance to 
the cave. It was Ian's voice that reached him. 



A DREARY VIGIL 247 

"Your enemies will return, lord. Even now they are 
watchful, but the fishing boats lie ready for the launch- 
ing. If you will dress quickly in these clothes, carrying 
your own in a bundle with these nets, we could hope to 
reach the boat where my comrade waits. Thus with- 
out suspicion will you reach the southern shores of the 
Firth." 

"1 thank you," replied the Thane with dignity. 
"Should the day dawn when I and Malcolm Canmore 
return in honor to Scotland, I will prove the gratitude 
which now must be content to clothe itself in words." 

"The honor of saving the Macduff from a tyrant's 
malice is enough for us, lord," retorted the fisher sturdily. 
"Nor other reward would we take since in this your 
thanks overpay us. But we must go cautiously, since 
your enemies have sworn to take you." 

So, cautiously they went, creeping down the cliff path 
to stand upon the golden sands and see the Firth blood- 
red in the setting sun and fishers grouped about by 
their brown-sailed craft. Away over the moors Seyton 
and his men scoured the land in search of a fugitive 
dead or alive, and none but a single sentry to see the 
bundle-laden fisher who stalked so resolutely to his 
place in Ian's boat. 

The water lapped softly on the shores. From a hut of 
wattles near came the sound of a girl's clear voice 
singing a crooning ballad of her land. 

The words sounded sweetly in the ears of the man who, 
from the prow of the boat, looked back with tear- 
dimmed eyes towards the shore. His heart cried farewell 
to wife and children, whilst a bitter sorrow weighed down 
his gallant spirit that he, the dauntless Macduff, should 
be thus driven to exile. Better would it have suited his 



248 MACBETH 

indomitable spirit to shout defiance on the usurper from 
his castle keep. But how, then, would Scotland be 
served? 

So 'Macduff bowed his head, praying that this which 
he did might be for Scotland's weal. He was smiling 
when presently he raised his face and watched Ian point 
to where he should land in safety. 

"I shall not forget, my friends," was his farewell, as he 
clasped the hands of his humble saviours, and the men 
laughed as they returned later with silver fish glistening 
at the bottom of their boat to find a gloomy-eyed man 
standing upon the shore close to where Macduff had 
embarked. A man who held in his hand a small jeweled 
dagger which had slipped from the bundle that the Thane 
had carried to the boat. 

Seyton knew at last that his search was vain. But 
he asked himself whether the devil in person had not 
helped to convey the Thane of Fife across the Firth 
under his very eyes. It seemed impossible to believe 
the task accomplished by these stolid and simple-minded 
fishers; yet, by aid of fishers or devils, Macduff had made 
his escape — and it was a grim errand to take the news 
back to the king. 



CHAPTER XXVIII 

THE SISTERHOOD OF EVIL 

A ROLL of thunder. Silence. No peaceful 
silence though, but rather a hushed suspense. 
The terror of Nature at her own enigma. Again 
the roar of tempest and shrill whistling of winds, which 
searched the wide moors till they found the secret of 
that dread ravine. 

Deep, deep, the secret lay, hidden by jagged crags, 
which showed to the casual observer naught but a rift 
in the earth, a yawning chasm, deep and terrible. Few, 
if any, knew of the winding path which led so far be- 
neath that only the whimpering of the distant hurricane, 
only the muffled roar of thunder, could be heard in the 
cavernous depths, where, on this fateful night, figures 
could be seen gliding to and fro, hideous phantoms 
concerned in a yet more hideous devil-pact. 

Yes, here was the secret of the cavern into whose dim 
depths none dared penetrate. None saving the three 
who formed the weird sisterhood of evil. 

A faint phosphorescent light was shed around, ema- 
nating from a mighty caldron set in the midst of the 
cave, shadowed by beetling crags. Around this caldron 
a wide circle had been described by the blood-stained 
weapon once handled by a murderer, whilst mystic 
devices had been traced around this ring together with 
sacred names. 

Beyond its circumference was a polished slab of rock, 

(249) 



250 MACBETH 

on which lay a bundle of dried herbs, close to the skeleton 
of some animal, round part of which a kind of red clay 
had been moulded, as if by a statuary; a staff, with the 
tail of a fish, was fastened to one end and the wings of a 
raven to the other. In another corner of the den was a 
large wooden trough, in which live fish splashed, sen- 
tineled by a black cat. A horror brooded over the ill- 
omened den, accentuated by the terrible figures of the 
three witches themselves as they moved with slow, 
measured tread about the steaming caldron, from which 
rose lurid smoke, showing the twisted features of those 
whose figures remained half in shadow amongst the 
many shadows of that dark and gloomy place. 

But the glare of pale light shone on Ilda's beautiful 
features, death-white and mocking, with the blood-red 
line about her neck and her long fair hair hanging in 
Medusa-like strands over her shapely shoulders, shone, 
too, on gray Graith's baleful eyes as she blinked them, 
smiling malevolently as she trod her weird measure, 
whilst Maurne hugged scraggy arms against her own 
withered breast, gloating over the evil which her warped 
brain plotted, so that at sight of those three sinister 
countenances a secret observer might have well shrank 
back appalled, feeling he had intruded into some dark 
corner of hell itself. Suddenly Graith's shrill voice rose 
in the opening words of her diabolical incantation. 

"Thrice the brinded cat hath mewed." 

Maurne hugged herself the closer. 

"Thrice and once the hedge-pig whined," she mouthed. 
Ilda flung back her head with mocking laughter, tossing 
her white arms aloft. 

"Harper cries: "Tis time, 'tis time!'" she shrieked. 
Graith stooped yet lower over the bubbling caldron. 



THE SISTERHOOD OF EVIL 251 

Amongst the deeper shadows of the cave fleshless 
phantoms seemed to flit, eyes peered out, mocking, 
terrible, eager eyes; skeleton hands were outstretched, 
clawing the empty air. All that was evil, terrible, 
haunted, seemed to fill the cave as Graith's cracked 
voice rose in a high-pitched chant, which shrilled against 
echoing thunder. 

Round about the caldron go, 
In the poisoned entrails throw; 
Toad, that under coldest stone 
Days and nights hast thirty-one 
S welter 'd, venom sleeping got, 
Boil thou first in the charmed pot! 

As the old hag flung in her hideous tribute to the charm, 
the others caught her by the hand and they began whirl- 
ing round, faster and faster in the ecstasy of their wild 
orgy, singing as they danced : 

Double, double, toil and trouble; 
Fire, burn; and caldron bubble. 

Slowly their song died away, though its echo haunted 
the corners of the direful cavern and the shadows were 
more thronged than ever with ghosts. Then Maurne 
thrust out one skinny hand, adding her share of the 
devil's brew they concocted together in that awful place. 
In a hoarse undertone she chanted as they moved slowly 
round: 

Fillet of a fenny snake, 

In the caldron boil and bake; 

Eye of newt, and toe of frog, 

Wool of bat, and tongue of dog; 

Adder's fork, and blind worm's sting, 

Lizard's leg, and owlet's wing; 

For a charm of powerful trouble, 

Like a hell-broth boil and bubble. 



252 MACBETH 

Then once more joined hands, a mad swirl of footsteps 
and shrill, mocking song. 

Double, double, toil and trouble; 
Fire, burn; and caldron bubble. 

It was Ilda's turn now. Youngest of the three by 
many years was Ilda, but far surpassing her companions 
in devil's mischief and hatred to her kind. Was it the 
stinging memory of what life had once promised to be 
to her that made this creature the evil and malevolent 
thing she was? Her beautiful eyes were bright with 
cruel purpose as she swayed over the seething caldron, 
flinging in the dreadful morsels she enumerated so glibly, 

Scale of dragon, tooth of wolf, 
Witches' mummy; maw and gulf 
Of the ravin 'd salt sea shark, 
Root of hemlock, digged i' the dark. 
Liver of blaspheming Jew, 
Gall of goats, and slips of yew, 
Silvered in the moon's eclipse; 
Nose of Turk, and Tartar's lips, 
Finger of birth-strangled babe, 
Ditch-delivered by a drab, 
Make the gruel thick and slab; 
Add thereto a tiger's chaudron, 
For the ingredients of our caldron ; 
Cool it with a baboon's blood, 
Then the charm is firm and good. 

Weird laughter rang high to the topmost crags, 
echoing, echoing, through the tumult of the storm, so 
that a man, striding alone across the darkened moors, 
shuddered, drawing his cloak more closely about him. 

But within the dark cavern the three terrible figures 
of degraded womanhood danced and swayed in giddy 
gyrations about that frightful caldron. 



THE SISTERHOOD OF EVIL 253 

The shadows were deeper if possible in the farther 
corners of the cave, but gradually they took shape, 
intangible, indefinite shape. Yet Ilda, glancing towards 
them first, paused in her mad revelry and slowly dropped 
crouching to the ground. Graith and Maurne huddled 
themselves beside her. How cold the air blew! Was 
it the queen of death herself who stood there? Pale 
Hecate — dread mistress of fate, and these her trembling 
servants? The cave was very chill, and the silence was 
complete save for the ceaseless bubbling of the caldron 
and the deep, panting breaths drawn by those three 
crouching figures. Even the fish in the tank were quiet, 
the sentinel cat was rigid in its place. Then faint, 
mocking laughter filled those haunted depths, laughter 
to freeze the springs of mirth rather than inspire gaiety, 
whilst from the darkest shadows the echo of song rose 
in strange melody: 

Black spirits and white, 
Red spirits and gray; 
Mingle, mingle, mingle, 
You that mingle may. 

The spirit of enchantment brooded everywhere. The 
gray-clad figures of the three sisters rose silently up. 
They knew their work approved. Their business on 
the eve of accomplishment. Eagerly they eyed each 
other, drawing close together. A weird coterie, evil of 
heart, evil of thought, evil in deed, yet possessed, by their 
devil-pact, of that power which all mankind secretly 
covets. The unholy power of showing the future to too 
curious eyes, which fail to see the angel with drawn sword 
of vengeance standing in the way of such unlawful rites. 

Maurne blinked red-rimmed eyes, peering round. 



254 MACBETH 

"By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked 
this way comes," she breathed, and all three drew yet 
closer to hear and watch. 

The dark crags hid the vault of midnight skies from 
view. Deep lay the cavern, deep and mysterious. 

Macbeth himself stood on the moor at the head of 
the secret path which had been shown him; yet he hesi- 
tated. The storm around, the memory of that haunting 
laughter, the over-powering sense of evil, checked him. 
But only for a few moments. Ever since that fateful 
meeting of the three weird sisters on the Hard Moor he 
had been obsessed by the craving to know his destiny. 
Had not those strange prophetesses proved themselves 
right again and again? He must know, therefore, the 
end. Be confirmed in the assurance that his throne was 
firm beneath him, that many years of a victorious reign 
lay before him. Doubts, premonition, the fear which 
ever dogs the days and nights of an usurper, might be 
banished if these weird women promised him immunity 
from his foes. For his final satisfaction he had conquered 
natural superstitions and ventured forth to know his fate. 

It was as if some force outside himself drove him along 
this track as it had driven him from the moment when 
Ilda the witch hailed him as Thane of Cawdor and future 
King of Scotland. 

From that hour his whole nature seemed to have 
changed. Ambition had taken the bit between her teeth 
and run away with him — though all the time his wife 
had held the reins, goading him ever to a more reckless 
pace. Now, standing at the summit of his goal, he clung 
there with desperate, yet palsied hands. Fearful, yet 
reckless, resolved that at all costs, at any price, he must 
retain what he held, that no man should snatch from him 
what he had given his soul to win. 



THE SISTERHOOD OF EVIL 255 

His soul. Standing there at the entrance to the 
witches' cavern, tempest without, tempest within, he 
cursed wildly — yet dared not curse his foes by name, 
knowing whom, alas! he must needs name. And she 
for whom so much had been given, what of her? He 
saw her as she had been, proud, beautiful, queenly — his 
wife. He saw her as at present, wild-eyed, despairing, 
vainly hiding the canker-worm of misery as her head 
drooped under weight of a blood-bought crown. 

With a groan of anguish and remorse the king set foot 
upon the secret path. He would fling such vain regrets 
aside, forget the past and learn that the future held for 
him a glorious and triumphant destiny. Was he not the 
King of Scotland? He could laugh at fate,, even did it 
wear the brow of Duncan and speak with Banquo's voice 
bidding him beware. 



CHAPTER XXIX 

THE WITCHES' WARNINGS 

THE depths at last! There they lay beneath him, 
dark and gloomy, lit only by the lurid light of 
yon smoking caldron. 

Macbeth, pausing on the path above, looked down to 
see three faces raised to his, two hideous in their degrada- 
tion, the third more evil than that of its companions, 
with its devil's beauty. 

Folding his arms across his breast Macbeth looked, 
disdaining to show the fear he felt. 

"How now yon secret, black, and midnight hags," 
he demanded contemptuously. "What is it you do?" 

They tossed their arms aloft, beckoning him. 

"A deed without a name," they whispered, but the 
whisper rolled through the cavern like a long hiss and 
brought an irrepressible shudder to its listener. 

Yet he mastered his emotion as best he could. The 
awesomeness of his surroundings impressed him — as was 
intended — by a sense of these creatures' power. Devil- 
sold they might be. What matter? He believed they 
could tell him that which he craved to know. 

"I conjure you," he said, his tones sounding hollow 
and unnatural to himself, "by that which you profess, 
however you come to know it, answer me. Though you 
untie the winds and let them fight against the churches; 
though the tempests swallow up the staggering ships 
and sweep poor mariners to purgatory; though castles 

(256) 



THE WITCHES' WARNINGS 257 

reel and fall, burying their inmates in a speedy death; 
though desolation howls throughout all lands and even 
destruction sickens of its own lust, answer me to what I 
ask?" 

Silence followed the passionate appeal. Only the 
distant artillery of the heavens above him sounded its 
ominous warning in the listener's ears. 

But though his brain reeled in horror, Macbeth stood 
rooted to where he waited, defying Heaven and hell, 
so long as he won his answer and was satisfied that he 
might cling to what he had so recklessly gained. 

"Speak," cried Graith at last, pointing up at 
him. 

"Demand," echoed Maurne, blinking and mouthing 
as one in the last stages of senile decay. Ilda laughed 
shrilly, looking boldly at the speaker as though tempting 
him by her beauty. 

"We'll answer," quoth she; "but say, Macbeth, if 
thou'dst rather hear it from our mouths or from our 
masters?" 

She pointed a long white finger towards the caldron. 
Macbeth clenched his hands tightly. With all his sins 
he was no coward, nor would he draw back now, so 
fiercely did he crave to know the future. 

"Call them," he commanded hoarsely; "let me . . . 
see them." 

The women drew together like roosting bats, stooping 
over their bubbling caldron, which hissed monotonously 
as though Eden's snake itself lay writhing there. 

"Pour in sow's blood," whispered Graith gloatingly, 
"with grease from a murderer's gibbet." 

Ilda obeyed, then once more the trio moved slowly 
around their Satanic brew. 



258 MACBETH 

Come, high, or low; 

Thyself, and office, deftly show, 

they breathed, and as the words of the incantation died 
away they parted, drifting back into the shadows. 

Macbeth stood motionless, gazing down at the smok- 
ing, reeking caldron. He did not glance towards the 
darkened corners of the cave or see the watchful, mocking 
eyes that peered out at him. Wrapt in the wonder of 
a fearful anticipation he gazed, till gradually the twisting 
coils of smoke seemed to part and a shape, indefinite at 
first, rose from the caldron's depths. Then, as the 
watcher looked, breathless and spell-bound, the vision 
resolved itself into the unmistakable outlines of an 
armed head. 

No body or limbs were visible, but the eyes of the 
vision returned glance for glance as Macbeth, rigid in his 
place, gazed. 

"Tell me," muttered the king, barely articulating 
the words, "tell me, thou unknown power " 

"He knows thy thought," rebuked the voice of gray 
Graith. "Hear his speech, but say thou naught." 

The king was silent, his heart seemed to cease to beat, 
the horror of the moment was only equaled by its fas- 
cination. He felt he would fain fly, yet must at all hazard 
remain to hear the words spoken by that awful vision. 

The eyes of the latter were still fixed upon him, reading 
his very soul. Slowly the wraith-like lips opened and a 
solemn voice pronounced its warning: 

Macbeth! Macbeth! Macbeth! Beware Macduff. 
Beware the Thane of Fife. Dismiss me. Enough! - 

Slowly the twisting coils of smoke curled about the 
phantom, which blended, melted, vanished from sight, 



THE WITCHES' WARNINGS 259 

whilst the smoke wraiths wreathed round, mounting 
upwards towards the roof of the cave. 

The king drew a deep breath and strove to rally his 
courage. 

"Whate'er thou art," he muttered, staring into the 
now shapeless smoke- wreaths, "I give thee thanks for 
thy good caution. Thou hast harp'd my fear aright. 
But one word more " 

"He will not be commanded," croaked Graith's voice 
from the shadows. "Here's another more potent than 
the first." 

The king shrank back. 

It was even as the witch had said. Once more the 
twisting vapors had parted and slowly from the depths 
of the boiling caldron up-rose a vision more terrible 
than the other — for this was a child, young, fair, but 
marred and stained by clouts of blood, so that the man 
who gazed sickened at the sight. 

"Macbeth!" it cried in shrill tones as the blast of some 
winter's gale screaming a-down draughty passages. 
"Macbeth! Macbeth!" 

"Had I three ears, I'd hear thee," whispered the 
king. 

"Be bloody, bold and resolute," mocked the strange 
apparition; "laugh to scorn the power of man, for no 
man born of woman shall harm Macbeth." 

The waters of the caldron seethed and bubbled, thick 
vapors of smoke rose, hiding the vision, which seemed to 
sink once more into charmed depths. 

Macbeth's face was ghastly, but his lips curled in a 
smile of triumph. 

"Then live, Macduff!" he exulted. "What need I 
fear of thee? But yet I'll make assurance doubly sure 



260 MACBETH 

and take a bond of Fate. Thou shalt not live, that I may 
tell pale-hearted fear it lies — and sleep in spite of 
thunder." 

Distant peals reverberated overhead. A zig-zag 
flash of lightning shone down into the depths, showing 
high, gray crags around. Then darkness, silence, wait- 
ing — but not for long. 

A third time the smoke, ascending in giddy gyrations, 
swayed and parted as by some unseen hand, showing the 
clearly denned figure of a child rising from the caldron, 
a crown set upon his fair locks, a tree clasped in his 
little hand. 

"What is this?" whispered the king, and from every 
corner of the cavern his words were echoed. "What is 
this — is this ... is this?" 

"A child-king," murmured Macbeth, awed and per- 
plexed. "A crown upon his baby brow . . . ." 

"Listen, but speak not," urged the musical tones of 
Ilda the witch. "Speak not, speak not," adjured the 
echoes. 

The eyes of the phantom babe were raised to the gray- 
faced man, who had braved hell's mystery to know him- 
self secure. "Be lion-mettled," cried a child voice, 
"proud too, and take no care who chafes, who frets or 
where conspirers are. Macbeth shall never vanquished 
be, until great Birnam wood to high Dunsinane hill shall 
come against him." 

The vision passed, clouds of hissing steam rushed up; 
silence ensued. 

The king brushed a trembling hand across his brow, 
whilst he twisted his features into a would-be confident 
smile. Was he not satisfied that his throne was firm 
beneath him? 

"That will never be," he retorted in reply to that last 



THE WITCHES' WARNINGS 261 

prophecy. " Can the trees unfix their roots and move at 
man's decree? Sweet bodements, good! If rebellious 
heads shall never rise till the wood of Birnam moves 
from its appointed place Macbeth shall live the lease 
of nature, pay his breath to time and mortal custom. 
Secure! Secure! Yet . . . my heart throbs to know 
one thing more." 

Slowly he descended to the threshold of the cavern, 
approaching the three cowering forms which clustered 
in the shadow. 

"Tell me," he urged, made bold by such clear answers 
to his wish, "if your art can tell so much, shall Banquo's 
issue ever reign in this kingdom?" 

The secret jealously guarded found voice at last. Im- 
patiently his ambition awaited the answer. 

" Seek to know no more," was the unanimous warning. 

But the king was importunate, and at the rebuke 
merely struck his fist fiercely down upon the ledge of 
rock with its weird freight. 

"I will be satisfied," he stormed. "Deny me this 
and an eternal curse fall on you! Let me know." 

With fierce, burning eyes he peered into the darkness 
where his elusive companions had hidden themselves, 
but, as he would have reiterated his command, a sudden 
harrowing sound echoed through the cave, combined with 
fierce hissing, as though angry serpents rose in battle 
in their native marshes. 

He turned to see the great caldron slowly sink down- 
wards into the depths of the earth. 

With a cry of horror he pointed to the phenomenon. 

"Why sinks that caldron?" he gasped. "What noise 
is this?" 

He glanced above him as though fearing the very crags 



262 MACBETH 

were about to fall, burying him and his sin-stained 
companions in that place of doom. 

But, as if in answer, the voices of the weird sisters 
rose one after the other, uttering the one command: 
"Show!" "Show!" "Show!" 

Then, as the king stood, wondering if there were time 
to flee before some awful damnation overtook him, the 
sound of a mournful chant wailed through the cave: 

Show his eyes, and grieve his heart, 
Come like shadows, so depart. 

Macbeth stood still. Fate seemed towering like some 
mighty genii of fabled lore above his head — a hand 
stretched itself forth, pointing to where on the farther 
side of the cavern a figure had risen, slowly moving 
across the open space to where gray rocks showed a 
narrow passage. 

With stately tread the ghostly apparition glided past 
in regal robes, crowned with the crown of Scotland. 
As it came into line with Macbeth it slowly turned its 
head and gazed with calm and lofty eyes at the man who 
shrank against the wall, sweating in his terror. 

"Thou art, too, like the spirit of Banquo!" groaned 
the king. "Down! down! Thy crown does sear my 
eyeballs . . . and . . . thy hair . . . ah!" 

A second, third and fourth crowned and sceptered 
monarch paced in spectral procession past him. 

"The other gold-bound brow is like the first," whis- 
pered Macbeth in anguish. "A third ... is like 
. . . the former! Filthy hags! Why do . . . show 
me this? A fourth? Start, eyes! What! . . . will 
the line stretch out to the crack of doom? Another yet? 
A seventh? I'll ... see no more . . . and yet the 



THE WITCHES' WARNINGS 263 

eighth appears, who bears a glass, which shows me 
many more . . . and some I see that carry two-fold 
balls and treble sceptres. Horrible sight! Aye! now 
I see 'tis true; for Banquo himself, gory in death, smiles 
upon me and points at them for his. What! — is this 
so?" 

He sank back, staring into the now empty darkness, 
but none answered him. He was alone — alone here in 
this terrible place of sights and visions which only the 
hands and breath of sin could conjure up. In vain he 
searched each dismal corner for the skulking sisterhood, 
upbraiding, adjuring, even cursing them in his terror of 
fury. No one did he find, only upsetting the tank of 
fish in his wild seeking, whilst the sentinel cat turned 
to spit upon him, her green eyes showing like sparks of 
light in the gloom. 

From somewhere amongst the deep recesses the echo 
of mocking laughter reached the distraught monarch, 
upon whom a frenzy of terror had seized. 

Groping, half-blindly, he reached the hidden path and 
fled up it, the echo of laughter in his ears, laughter which 
reminded him of the mirth of Ilda the witch, when she 
fled from him across the Hard Moor. Were they deceiv- 
ing him, these terrible creatures who lived apart, accursed 
by their sinful pact with the enemy of mankind? Was 
it their hands which seemed outstretched even now to 
drag him down into some abyss of shame, whilst they 
filled his ears with the tale of satisfied ambition? 

Great beads of sweat poured down the king's face 
as at last he reached the upper moor again and found 
that the dawn had broken and a new day was born. 

Vainly, however, he scanned the horizon for those 
weird comrades of the night. 



264 MACBETH 

" Where are they?" he groaned, sinking exhausted 
upon a boulder some few yards from the mouth of the 
cavern. "Gone? Aye! gone — as I would this night- 
mare might go. Let the hour I listened to their foul 
prophecies stand forever accursed. Had I never sought 
to raise the veil of the future I should not be the tortured 
man I am now. Black deeds, black dreams, black past 
and blacker future. Yet, away despair! Am I not still 
the King of Scotland?" 

With a sob of self-mockery he rose, moving as a man 
in a dream towards Forres. 

Two men came from behind a rounded hillock on the 
left, bowing low before him. They were Lennox and 
Caithness, who masked their faces to courtier-like 
servility, even whilst they watched cat-like to note the 
perturbation on their sovereign's face. 

"What is your majesty's will?" questioned Lennox, 
for he had heard the king cry out. 

Macbeth stared from one to the other; he was still 
dazed by the horror of last night's visions. 

"Saw you the weird sisters?" he asked breathlessly. 
The two nobles exchanged glances. Lennox shook his 
head. 

"No, indeed, my lord," he replied. 

"Came they not by you?" urged the king, laying his 
hand on Caithness' wide sleeve. 

"No, indeed, my lord." 

Macbeth relinquished his hold. He was ashen-cheeked 
and his limbs shook. 

"Infected be the air whereon they ride and damned 
all those that trust them," he cursed. Then, seeing the 
curiosity of his companions' look, he strove to free him- 
self of his panic. 



THE WITCHES' WARNINGS 265 

"What is the news?" he asked sharply. "Why look 
you so askance?" 

"Nay, your majesty," replied Caithness reluctantly, 
"we bring no tidings, though, as we are told, Seyton 
searches for you to tell how the Thane of Fife hath fled 
to England." 

Macbeth halted abruptly. He had given Seyton 
definite and repeated orders concerning this Macduff, 
whom he hated for his integrity, powerful influence, 
defiance of his authority and, as he guessed, suspicions 
concerning the murders of Duncan and Banquo. 

"Fled to England," he repeated. "Indeed, fled." 

"Aye, my liege." 

With difficulty the king masked his features as he 
caught the intent gaze of the chieftains, whose allegiance 
and faith he had reason to doubt. 

He must be careful to keep his chagrin out of sight. 
Yet the task was a difficult one, for he could very readily 
have cursed not only Seyton, but himself. 

Aye ! his was the fault. He had let this powerful chief 
— his enemy from the moment of his accession — live too 
long. Procrastination, fear of too bold a step, too out- 
rageous a crime, had brought the disaster, which is ever 
apt to overtake a weak man who is only a villain by 
circumstance — not nature. And now Macduff had 
escaped his vengeance. Alone in the private chamber 
of his palace the king paced to and fro, gnawing his 
finger nails, casting rapid glances to right and left, as if 
he in turn feared the assassin's knife, which was his own 
antidote for haunting fears. 

"I should have struck," he muttered, "when the 
purpose first suggested itself to my mind. Macduff 
should have died when first his eyes met mine with un- 



266 MACBETH 

spoken challenge. A murderer? Aye! I should 
have given him cause to know me as such. Seyton is 
a fool, a blunderer. I'll hear his excuse for this. But 
in the meantime Macduff shall not go unpunished. 
What! I'll not play with vengeance this time, or halt 
to debate on swift action. His wife and babes remain 
in Scotland. I'll take my vengeance thus — surprise his 
castle, ravage Fife, give to the sword all who trace his 
line. So shall I kill greedy ambition and strike death to 
Macduff's proud heart through those he loves. Why, 
'tis well conceived and shall be better executed. For the 
rest I'll see Seyton and learn how this wily fox escaped 
his grasp. There's more treachery to be unraveled, nor 
will I fail to take warning of that phantom babe who 
bade me spare not my enemies." 

He clapped his hands to summon Donald, his faithful 
attendant, commanding him to seek out Seyton, who 
came, reluctant for once, to his sovereign's presence, 
since in telling his tale he could not fail to accuse a 
woman. 

And that woman no other than Bethoc, the fair young 
daughter of Queen Gruoch. 



CHAPTER XXX 

DAME MARJORY 

SLOWLY rode a solitary traveler that autumn 
evening towards the gray old fortalice known as 
the Maiden Castle, situated on the boundaries 
of Kennoway and Scoonie. It was here that Macduff, 
Thane of Fife, had lived in comparative retirement for 
the first year or two after the death of Duncan. It was 
here that his wife and young children still resided in 
daily anticipation of their lord's return. 

But it was not the rugged Thane himself who rode 
thitherward that evening, but a younger man, the red- 
headed, red-bearded Rosse, cousin of Dame Marjory, 
Macduff's fair wife. 

Slow of pace the steed, heavy of heart its rider, for it 
was ill news Rosse brought his well-loved cousin. Yet 
how glad a welcome she gave him presently, when he 
came striding into her presence — shaggy, red-locked 
Rosse, who was, nevertheless, her dear cousin and 
friend. 

She made a pretty picture seated there at her spinning 
wheel, her wealth of fair hair lying in great plaits down 
to her waist, with a single ribboned love-lock nestling in 
the white arch of her neck. A true daughter of Scotia 
was she, rosy-cheeked, blue-eyed, fair-tressed, with the 
light of laughter flashing over her face like sunshine on a 
summer's landscape. 

By her side, nestling up against her gown, was a small, 

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268 MACBETH 

curly-haired lad of some six years old, bright-faced and 
handsome, carrying himself with a rare steadiness which 
minded his cousin of the child's absent father, though his 
features were his mother's, with big blue eyes, which 
looked out in a happy confidence at a world their owner 
had found a very pleasant place. 

Dame Marjory was on her feet in an instant, and run- 
ning to her cousin's side, more with the eagerness of a 
girl than the stateliness of a matron. 

"News?" she cried. "You bring me news?" 

Of whom she did not say, since heart, mind and soul 
were bound up in that rugged lord who was ever so 
tender to her. 

"Why, yes," said Rosse, "I bring news, sweet coz." 
And he placed his arm around her slender waist, hesi- 
tating to bring a cloud to mar the sunshine of that lovely 
face. 

But love is eagle-eyed, and already Marjorie's red lips 
were quivering and she stooped to draw little Indulph 
closer to her, as though she feared . . . she knew not 
what. 

"My lord is well?" she faltered. 

Rosse bowed his head. 

"Why, yes," said he, "he is very well, as I believe." 
Marjory clasped her hands. 

"And he will soon return?" she continued. "Ah, 
coz, when he is absent I ... I am much afraid." 

Rosse tried to smile. 

"What! with such a protector," he protested lightly, 
patting Indulph's curly head. "But you must learn to 
be brave, dear Marjory, since — it may be long ere Mac- 
duff rides hither." 

Again her lips quivered, seeing which little Indulph 



DAME MARJORY 269 

tip-toed, so that he might slip plump hands within her 
arm. 

"Where is he?" questioned Marjory — and there was 
naught for it but Rosse must answer straightly. 

"He has tied to England/' he said, almost curtly, 
since he could not bear the pathos of her eyes. 

"To England?" gasped the young wife. She could 
not believe the words at first — but Rosse's face was 
convincing. With a low cry she slipped from his side 
and flung herself on to a couch. Indulph, frightened at 
her grief, knelt beside her, trying, with childish ringers 
to pluck his mother's hands from her face. But Marjory 
would not be comforted. The horror of desolation was 
upon her. 

What! her husband fled, leaving wife and babes 
with never a word of farewell, never an explanation? 
It was as if some knell had rung in her ears, and not all 
Rosse's entreaties or her little son's pleadings would 
drown the sound. 

"You tell me he has gone!" she sobbed. "Gone! 
leaving his wife, his babes, his castle, his estate, in a 
place from whence he himself does fly. Oh, I'll not 
believe it of his love. Did fear outrun affection? Why 
Macduff and fear were ever strangers. And he loves us, 
Rosse. Wherefore then has he gone?" 

Rosse was by her side, perplexed in argument, dis- 
tressed at sight of her grief, knowing, alas! there was 
cause for such. 

Yet he could not let her blame her husband, whose 
heart and duty had tugged such different ways. 

"Dearest coz," he begged, "I pray you, school your- 
self. But for your husband, he is noble, wise, judicious 
and best knows the fitness of the seasons. I dare not 



270 MACBETH 

speak much further; but cruel are the times, when we 
are traitors and do not know ourselves; when we hold 
rumor from what we fear, yet know not what we fear." 

She raised herself, one arm clasping her little son to 
her breast, whilst she looked with tear-drenched eyes 
towards her cousin. 

"You speak in riddles, coz," she answered, in low 
tones, "but you bid me have faith in my husband, which 
thing I will do. He leaves me here, I and his babes, 
who I know well share all his love. But you men strive 
ever, I think, to prove that there is something greater 
in this world than love, and so go forth to seek it, leav- 
ing us women to break our hearts at home. Yet, I 
repeat, my husband hath a noble soul and loving heart. 
So we will wait in what patience we may for his return." 

The submission in the gentle voice was infinitely more 
appealing than the wildest upbraidings could have been. 

But Rosse took a cheerful note. He did not conceive 
that his cousin or her children were in any personal 
danger, though he doubted whether Marjory would see 
her lord again for a weary time. 

Yet, as he kissed her hand and patted Indulph's 
head, he tried to be reassuring. 

"Brighter days may be. even now dawning for Scot- 
land," he said, "days whose glory you shall share, 
brave coz. And though I must needs leave you in 
haste today, it will not be so long before I return to 
see how it fares with you and these sweet protectors of 
yours." 

And he laughed as a younger boy pulled aside the 
heavy curtain, and after one prolonged stare of amaze- 
ment at the red-headed visitor, rushed to his mother's 
side, burying his own curly poll in her skirts. 



DAME MARJORY 271 

"Fie, chick," rebuked the mother, "thou shouldest 
know a friend, since — alack — thou may est yet have need 
to weep at sight of enemies." 

And she sighed so that Indulph, with the superiority 
of two years' seniority, struck in. 

"Odo is but a babe," quoth he; "/ did not fear my 
cousin of Rosse. I like him and I would we might ride 
away with him, mother, to join my father." 

She smiled very tremulously into the bright little face, 
then turned to Rosse. 

"You were right, cousin," she said, "in telling me I 
had a protector. See how like his father he carries 
himself. I shall welcome you thus when you come 
again." 

Rosse looked down at her kindly and pityingly. Little 
Odo had raised his face, though he nestled very close 
against his mother's knee, whilst Indulph, having 
climbed to the back of the couch, stood with chubby 
arms wound round his mother's neck in protective 
fashion. 

Reluctantly, indeed, did the young noble take his 
leave. Presentiment, affection, innate chivalry for a 
lonely woman who was called to what in those days 
might prove a perilous task, all urged him to remain. 
But these were days when events began to move fast 
in Scotland. If Macduff succeeded in convincing 
Prince Malcolm that now was the time to claim his 
father's throne, and should bring the prince with 
English allies northwards, the discontented nobles 
of Scotland must be ready with a simultaneous rising 
to arms, and it was to ensure this that Rosse rode east, 
west, north and south through the land with his fiery 
message. 



272 MACBETH, 

Under the circumstances, therefore, it was necessary 
to bid a hasty farewell to his cousin, assuring her that 
if she had need of either help or advice, she must contrive 
to send to his castle by trusty messenger. 

"Be sure that I shall come," he repeated again and 
again, "and in the meantime, little lad, you shall stand 
guardian to this sweet mother." 

Indulph regarded him with solemn eyes. 

"I will kill all my mother's enemies," he averred, 
"if I can but reach the big sword that hangs upon the 
wall. Never fear, cousin." 

"Nay, who could fear with such a champion?" 
laughed Rosse. "My pretty cousins, blessing on you." 

So he left them, striding away across the low-raftered 
dismal hall and through the courtyard, till he reached 
the cliff-side beyond, but ever with him he carried the 
vision of a fair woman, golden-haired, blue-eyed and 
very wistful, her white veil floating to the hem of her 
green gown, against which one curly-haired babe 
nestled, whilst another flung his protective arms around 
her neck. 

Well could Rosse understand the bitter reluctance 
with which the Thane of Fife had quitted his native 
shores. 



CHAPTER XXXI 

A STRANGE VISITOR 

IAUGHTER and tears, laughter and tears! Autumn 
sunshine and autumn tempest, but the sun shone 
that day when Lady Macduff stood in the orchard, 
watching her bright-haired laddies gathering apples 
as rosy as themselves, whilst in her arms she held wee 
baby Joan, the flower of the flock in her tender father's 
eyes. 

A rare group of beauty and happiness for those gloomy 
days, but Marjory was blithe-hearted and young, since 
she had been but a child when her lord won her to wife 
and brought her from the lowlands to this gray old 
fortress, which stood on rising ground overlooking moor 
and valley. 

Presently Indulph set up a shout from a more distant 
part of the orchard and came running back to his mother 
as fast as sturdy legs could bring him. 

"It is a man," he panted, tossing back the fair curls 
from his eyes. "A stranger, lady mother, so I am come 
to stand by thee and protect thee as my cousin gave 
command." 

And he drew a wooden sword from his belt and looked 
mighty valiant, standing there with legs wide apart and 
blue eyes very fearless. 

But Lady Macduff, measuring the distance from 
orchard to castle, gave a faint moan of fear and held 
her babe very fast in her arms, whilst Odo, curling him- 

18 (273) 



274 MACBETH 

self on the grass at her feet, began to munch an apple 
with the air of a philosopher. 

Meantime, there was nothing very alarming in the 
aspect of the man who, with his plaid wrapped close 
around him, drew near with an air of humble respect. 

His hair hung long and matted on his shoulders, his 
beard was ragged and unkempt, but the eyes he raised 
to the lady's frightened face were mild and pitying. 

"Bless you, fair dame," said he, raising his hands, 
"I am not known to you, though yours is a name I 
have had cause to bless for kindness showered upon one 
I love. Therefore, I come, a stranger, yet withal a 
debtor, because I doubt some danger does approach you 
nearly. If you will take a homely man's advice, be not 
found here." 

The lady gave a little cry, and kneeling on the grass, 
made as though to draw all her children into her embrace, 
whilst raising fear-stricken eyes to the speaker, whose 
simple earnestness carried weight in spite of shabby 
raiment and ill-kempt appearance. 

He continued now, with rapid glances around and a 
husky note of pity in his voice. " Heaven forgive 
me for frightening you thus," said he, "yet that same 
heaven knows that for the love of your goodness and 
the kindness of your noble lord I would have you and 
your little ones escape hence. Nay, I dare abide no 
longer, lady, as you would understand, did you know 
my name. But I should have been damned as an ingrate 
had I not come. Take my advice, flee whilst there is 
yet time, since pity dwells not in the hearts of those 
who ride this way." 

But Lady Macduff, weeping, buried her face against 
little Indulph's shoulder. 



A STRANGE VISITOR 275 

"Whither should I fly?" she sobbed, "I have done 
no harm. But I ... I remember now I am in this 
earthly world, where to do harm is- often laudable; 
to do good, sometime, accounted dangerous folly. 
Why then, alas, I have no plea to make, and since I 
cannot fly must wait to meet this evil which you, good 
friend, have warned me of. At least, I give thee thanks 
for such." 

"Would I could do more," replied the stranger; "had 
I known before, I might have essayed a more sure 
deliverance. Now, alas, the danger steals at my heels — 
and I must away." 

Marjory looked at him. He was quite unknown to 
her, but his eyes were filled with a pity which made her 
more afraid as she thought of his warning. 

"I thank thee," she repeated. "If indeed, thou 
wouldest serve me, let the noble Rosse know of this need 
and threatening. He is my cousin and bears a cousinly 
regard to me and mine. He would help me if he could." 

The messenger turned away. 

"Gladly, gladly," he muttered. "That is an errand 
for willing feet. If I am in time, you shall thank me 
hereafter, lady. But I would you could have 'scaped 
to some safe hiding-place till your friends could reach 
you." 

"In that too," replied the dame more cheerfully, 
"I am not despairing. Yon castle has secrets. known to 
few." 

The man lingered. 

"Make the best use of such secrets, lady," he com- 
manded, "though 'tis said Macbeth hath spies fee'd in 
every castle in the land. But if you have a secret in 
safe hiding, why, hide in it by all means, whilst I'm away 
to tell your kinsman of your trouble." 



276 MACBETH 

"Thanks, thanks. Heaven's saints protect you. 
Heaven's mercy bless you," cried Lady Macduff, as she 
watched the lean and shabby figure steal stealthily back 
across the orchard, as though the man feared even now 
that spies might be watching his progress. 

Indulph turned his chubby face towards his mother. 

"I am glad my cousin of Rosse is coming, mother," 
said he, with a quaver in his voice; "but till he arrives 
I will protect thee from bad men." 

And he clasped her neck in vigorous embrace. 

Tears stood in Marjory's blue eyes. She felt so lonely 
in the midst of this surging tempest of fear. If she 
knew whence and when this danger was coming it would 
have been easier to face. But now foes, to her haunted 
vision, seemed stealing upon her unawares and from all 
sides. Again her mother arms went round her three 
babes. 

"If he had not left me," she made moan, "if he had 
but taken us to England too!" 

Little Odo began to cry. He did not like all this 
strange talk, and his mother's distress made him weep 
in sympathy. Perhaps it was the surest way to dry her 
tears, for she rose, trying to smile as she bade them 
gather up their flowers and fruit and return to the castle. 

But when they were all a-bed and she alone in the 
gloomy, torch-lit chamber where she usually sat with her 
women, employed in broidering, her fears returned, and 
she sent for Alan the seneschal. He came, a white- 
haired old man, shrewd of wit but deaf of hearing, so 
that the lady must needs raise her voice as she told her 
tale of the messenger and his warning. 

"We must be prepared, Alan," quoth she. "Guard 
well the door and walls, let the drawbridge be up and a 



A STRANGE VISITOR 277 

keen watch kept. If foes come and we are doomed, 
there is the passage which leads by subterranean way to 
my lord's castle at Dalginch. We must flee thither if 
the worst befall." 

"Which heaven's saints forfend, lady," replied the 
old man, with raised hands and puckered brow. " In- 
deed, I know not what enemies could rear their heads 
against so sweet a lady." 

Lady Macduff sighed as she toyed with the long chain 
about her neck. 

"The fellow hinted at the king's vengeance," she 
whispered. "Since my lord refused his service in 
the building of the stronghold on Dunsinane hill, 
Macbeth hath held a grudge against him. Methinks 
he would have prisoned him had he not fled. Yet 
surely, it is no kingly part to war against a weak woman 
and her babes." 

"So little kingly," said Alan hopefully, "that I'll not 
believe it of the king. Heaven send your ladyship quiet 
repose. Indeed, I think that messenger was mad or 
foolish; but good watch shall be kept, rest assured 
there, lady. Good watch shall be kept." 

Being hard of hearing, Alan did not note the stealthy 
footsteps that receded down the dark passage before 
him as he quitted his lady's presence. 

Night came, in the dark vault of heaven the stars 
blazed, dawn broke and evening shadows fell once more, 
and in and round the Maiden Castle no ill drew near. 

Dame Marjory was smiling as the day wore on. Surely 
her next visitor would be Rosse himself, and in his council 
and advice she might rest satisfied. 

So that night she laid down to sleep with little fear at 
her heart, to be awakened, poor lady, by shouts without 



278 MACBETH 

and the crashing as of some great tree trunk driven 
against the outer door. 

Marjory sprang from her couch, dressed hastily and 
opened her door. 

A man with a lighted torch in his hand, his face 
blanched in terror, was running down the stone passage. 

Seeing his lady he paused. 

"The king's soldiers," he gasped, "surprise the castle. 
They hold no parley; give no reply to questions save 
that of arrows' flight. As Alan stood to ask the meaning 
of the assault an arrow struck him in the neck. In death 
he strove to tell me, lady, that you must flee, though 
whither, I know not. We are betrayed . . . betrayed." 

On he fled, terror-stricken, to rouse slumbering com- 
rades, leaving his mistress to stare after him in horror. 

The castle surprised! Alan killed! Herself and 
children in grievous peril. And could this be the king's 
doing? The king's vengeance on a disobedient subject? 
Oh, cruel, cruel doctrine — the innocent for the guilty. 
Cruel tyranny that glutted its appetite on the lives of 
women and babes. 

Wringing her hands, the lady sped on towards the 
room where her treasures lay. Indulph was already 
awake, a flushed and rosy cherub with curls tumbling 
into sleepy eyes. Yet the little lad, hearing the loud 
laments of the women about him, remembered the part 
his cousin had jestingly given him. His baby-soul was 
ardent to show himself his mother's protector, and as 
she stood wan and fear-stricken in the doorway, he flew 
towards her. 

"If I could but reach my father's sword," he panted, 
"I would slay them all." 

She stooped to kiss him. "Brave chick," said she, 



A STRANGE VISITOR 279 

"how like thy father wouldst thou run. Alack-a-me! 
How fearsome are those sounds. But we may yet 
escape." 

She gathered sleeping Joan into her arms and beckoned 
the nurse to bring drowsy Odo. 

"There is a way," she whispered, "known to few, 
by which we may reach Dalginch in safety. Quickly, 
quickly." 

The flare of fire showed ruddily without, but Mac- 
duff's men were fighting valiantly in the courtyard and 
from the wall. They knew, poor kernes, that to let the 
enemy in meant death, for the king's soldiers made no 
secret of their purpose, which was to slay all. 

From the seven-walled tower of the Maiden Castle 
the defenders looked out upon a grim foe. Alan was 
dead, and they had discovered a traitor in their ranks 
on whom bloody death had fallen too late. Yet hearts 
ached as their owners thought of their beloved lady and 
her babes. 

Lady Macduff wept no longer, as she and the nurse, 
preceded by one man who acted as torch-bearer, hurried 
down the winding passages till they came to the spot 
where a trap door showed a spiral stair leading down- 
wards to unknown depths. 

The nurse who carried little Odo drew back with 
exclamations of alarm. She dared not trust herself to 
such a passage. But Indulph, biting his lips and clench- 
ing his hands, took a resolute step forward. 

"I am not afraid," said he, and the child's courage 
shamed the woman's fears. 

"We shall be safe," breathed Dame Marjory. "None 
will dream of seeking us whither we go." 

But even as she spoke, the torch-bearer gave a cry of 



280 MACBETH 

alarm and leapt to one side. The passage before them 
was blocked by some four men, who stood mocking and 
prepared, their long dirks drawn. 

"Treachery," moaned Dame Marjory, as she clasped 
her baby daughter to her heart, whilst the nurse, allow- 
ing Odo to fall from her embrace, fled shrieking back 
towards the staircase. 

Her mistress knew that flight was vain. The flickering 
torchlight showed her the murderous glances of the men 
who crept forward towards her, two hugging the slimy 
walls of the passage, the others creeping side by side in a 
straight line towards the little group which the lurid flare 
of light showed them. 

"Where is thy husband, lady?" asked the foremost 
mockingly, as he looked boldly into the lovely, anguished 
face before him. 

She answered calmly, as one prepared to die, who in 
death remembered the noble name she bore. 

"Where you will not find him, knave." 

"He is a traitor," quoth a second, leering at his victim. 

Indulph sprang forward. 

Poor babe. Even now he scarcely realized his danger, 
so obsessed was he with his desire to protect his mother. 

He stood there, the flicker of the torchlight showing 
his fair curls and bonnie face, with its wide blue eyes 
and defiant lips. 

"He is no traitor, thou shag-eared villain," cried he; 
"he lies who says so." 

The foremost murderer stooped and thrust the child 
through the body. 

"What, you egg!" he mocked. "Young fry of 
treachery." 

Indulph stretched out his arms. 



A STRANGE VISITOR 281 

"He's killed me, mother," he wailed. "Fly, fly, or 
he'll kill thee too." 

Did she obey that piteous appeal? Could she have 
moved from that spot, where her bright-haired darling 
lay bathed in his life-blood. 

At first, in frozen horror, the poor lady could not stir, 
but gazed in fascinated terror at the scene before her, 
whilst her arms circled her other babes. 

But as the ruthless murderers crept nearer to her she 
uttered a piercing shriek and fled back towards the stairs, 
thinking not of herself, but the little ones who clung 
wailing about her neck. 

In fiendish cruelty those behind allowed her to reach 
the stairs, to go stumbling blindly up them — then, ere 
she reached the passage beyond, they leapt upon her, 
driving their murderous knives home to her wildly 
throbbing heart. 

Dead she lay there, her golden tresses streaming in 
loosened masses over her shoulder, a dead child clasped 
in each arm. 

It was the vengeance of Macbeth! A mad, insensate, 
heartless vengeance, which pursued every living creature 
in and around the wrecked and ruined castle. 

Death everywhere, so complete, so entire, that there 
was no need to burn the castle to the ground. Perhaps 
those who, lacking all bowels of compassion, had com- 
mitted these awful crimes, preferred to leave the bloody 
witnesses of vengeance to strike awe into the hearts of 
all or any who might come that way. 

Certain it is that when the dawn broke, the Maiden 
Castle stood intact — a tomb only for those who yester- 
day had been a blithe and contented household. 

But the emissaries of Macbeth had not completed 



282 MACBETH 

their task yet. The Thane of Fife, if ever he returned, 
should gaze upon wasted territories and burned home- 
steads, upon desolation complete and entire! 

So the men who had come to play the part of midnight 
assassins for a tyrant, went blithely to complete their 
work, nor did they see or heed a man who rode with 
loose reins towards the deserted castle an hour after the 
break of day. 

Rosse flung himself from his horse in the courtyard. 
His face was deathly pale and his eyes were very grim. 

From afar he had spied the castle still standing gaunt 
and clear against the sky-line and had told himself he 
was hi time to bring his cousin succor. 

After the tale told by the mysterious messenger he 
had resolved at any risk to convey Lady Macduff and 
her children to England. 

He had never dreamed that the rancor of Macbeth 
could mark such innocent quarry down for destruction. 

And now? 

His pulses drummed fiercely, his breath came in short 
gasps as he marked the dead who lay about the court- 
yard and saw broken doors and hacked stairs. 

What was the tale the night could tell? 

Even yet he would not believe that this work of ven- 
geance had been carried against a weak woman and her 
babes. But for all that, he staggered in his walk across 
that dismantled hall, seeing destruction on every side. 

And presently, alas! alas! He stood in that dim 
passage where lay a mother, young and lovely, yet with 
the indelible stamp of horror on her glazed blue eyes, 
stretched on the stones in death, with a dead bairn 
clasped in each arm. 

With a sob which shook him from head to foot, Rosse 



A STRANGE VISITOR 283 

knelt beside the dead woman, whilst, as if in mockery, 
his thoughts flew back to the last words she had spoken 
to him as she sat grouped with her fair babes about her. 

"I shall welcome you thus, when you come again." 

Welcome you thus. 

What torture to recall the vision of the beauteous 
woman, radiant in her youth and tender motherhood, 
with those fair buds clustered about her parent stem, 
little Indulph rearing his curly head so proudly in the 
role of protector. 

Indulph! Ah, the boy was not here. Yet, was it 
likely those foul fiends had spared Macduff's heir? 

A heavy sigh burst from Rosse's lips as he prosecuted 
that melancholy search still further. And at last he 
found the child he sought. Aye, and guessed something 
of the story, as he bent over the little dead lad, whose 
arms were stretched wide, as though his last conscious 
act had been to bar the way against his mother's mur- 
derers. Kneeling there beside young Indulph, Rosse 
vowed a stern vow of vengeance. Nor rest nor peace 
would he know till these foul deeds were avenged. 
l For this alone would he have been ready to strive with 
heart and soul, brain and muscle, to drag a tyrant from 
his throne and smite him to the dust in which such 
innocent victims lay. 

Yet a heavy sigh broke from the man's quivering lips 
as he thought of the tale he must bear with him to 
England and tell in the ears of the Thane of Fife. 

How would Macduff hear such news as this? Would 
not that noble heart break in the knowledge of how wife 
and children had suffered in his stead? Or would the 
hearing of such a deed serve as the torch to tow, setting 
hearts in such a blaze as should confound the murderer 
of these poor sufferers to lowest hell? 



284 MACBETH 

Rosse rose from his knees, his hand sought his sword, 
his curses rolled deep and stern from his lips. 

"Beware, Macbeth/' he muttered, "when Macduff 
shall stand before thee and demand payment for these 
sweet lives which thou so bloodily hast destroyed." 

Then, turning, he quitted the passage, passed once 
more through the deserted castle and mounted his 
horse. 

No time should be lost in useless lamentations and 
weeping; he must reach England at the earliest moment, 
the dire messenger of dreadful news. 

Yet he told himself fiercely as he rode, that in the 
deliverance of that news, one great purpose at least was 
served. There could be no delay in saving Scotland from 
the remorseless fiend who ruled as her king. 



CHAPTER XXXII 

LOST HOPES 

A LOG fell with a crash, and showersof sparks on 
the open hearth flared ruddily, and went out, 
leaving a trail of blue smoke behind it. 

The great deer-hound stretched before the blaze, rose, 
yawned and stalked with grave dignity across to where 
a man stood in an alcove of the hall, looking out through 
the high, narrow window. His head rested back with 
careless grace against the stone- work of the wall; his 
gray eyes were pensive, with a lurking sadness in them 
little in accord with his years, for he was still young, 
though his whole expression was that of one who has 
found his strength in repression. 

Little indeed remained in outward show of the gay 
young Prince Malcolm of Scotland, who had hunted the 
wild boar and red deer in his native forests. Here was 
an exile who had grown stern and dominant during the 
years of waiting. There were deep lines about the once 
smiling mouth, a proud aloofness in his bearing which, 
with his Highland dress, marked him as one apart from 
others in that quiet English court over which the gentle, 
saintly king known as Edward the Confessor reigned. 

Malcolm allowed his hand to rest on the hound's noble 
head; they were in sympathy, those two, with a silent 
bond of friendship between them. 

Did not Faithful know when the other's thoughts went 
drifting away in passionate longing for his native land? 

(285)" 



286 MACBETH 

Ah! the weariness of that desire, the hunger, the long- 
ing, all vain, all vain. 

Malcolm sighed impatiently, chiding himself as he had 
done a hundred times for ingratitude. 

Had not the kindly English king proved almost a 
father to him during these lonely years? Had he not 
given him love, sympathy, council — all in fact but that 
which the exile longed for — his home, his country? 
Even Bethoc, though a sweet and tender memory, was 
but a shadow compared to Scotland. 

Poor Bethoc! Could she have guessed that? Might 
she not have known it? — since love fills a woman's whole 
life and is but an episode in that of a man. So, though 
Malcolm remembered the little maid he had loved one 
joyous spring-tide, it was Scotland he dreamed of, Scot- 
land he hungered for. 

And all that long desire had been re-kindled with the 
coming of Macduff a few days previously. 

Aye, the Thane of Fife had come, as others had come, 
to the English court. Emissaries of treacherous 
Macbeth, these others, sent to have Duncan's son back 
into an usurper's power. 

But Malcolm, grown cautious against treachery, had 
evaded the pitfalls and remained in the safe shelter of 
the English court, biding his time, with Scottish cau- 
tion, till the time to strike was ripe. And now Mac- 
duff had come, with the same invitation on his lips, 
the same smooth appeal for Malcolm to return. Should 
he trust him? — this man who in former years had 
proved his friend. 

Exile had given a touch of scepticism to Malcolm's 
frank and open nature. So often nearly deceived, he 
learned to tread warily, receiving love with the open 



LOST HOPES 287 

arms of friendship, though his heart yearned towards 
this man whose rugged face and speech brought a breath 
of his native moors with it. 

So now he stood pondering, weighing every considera- 
tion in his mind, seeing this way and that, as one who 
has all to gain or all to lose upon a trust. 

Footsteps, light and soft, came pit-a-pat across the 
fire-lit hall. There was but an after-glow of the sunset 
to shine on little Margaret's fair curls and blue eyes. 
She stood there, the light making a halo about her child- 
ish brow, a quaint little figure in her long white frock, 
wide sleeves and soft veil. 

"Malcolm," she faltered, "Malcolm." 

He turned and looked at her. They had always been 
such friends, the little Princess Margaret and he, and she 
was not shy with him as her brother Edgar and younger 
brother Christian were, and would protest indignantly 
when they called him gloomy and disagreeable. 

"It is only that he is sometimes sad," she would say; 
"but always he is kind, and I love him." 

She did not know what that childish love had meant 
to him then any more than she could guess what her 
woman's love was to mean to him in after years. 

As for Malcolm, he looked tenderly now at the pretty 
child, whose gentle serenity and sweet disposition were 
so like her father's. 

He came from the alcove with Faithful beside him and 
crossed to a great carved chair beside the hearth. 

Margaret followed, climbing up on to his knee, with 
the confidence of a proved friendship, resting her fair 
little head back against his shoulder, so that she could 
gaze up into his grave face. 

"Why are you always sad?" she asked — she had never 



288 MACBETH 

put that question so plainly before, but Edgar had been 
teasing her for her devotion to so glum a playfellow, 
and she was minded to have an answer for him next time. 

Malcolm looked into the serious little face and thought 
suddenly of another pair of blue eyes which he had found 
passing fair. What of Bethoc? he wondered. How had 
it been with her during these long years? 

He stifled a sigh as he gazed down at the child-princess. 

"I grow sad, Margaret," said he, "when I hear the 
voices calling to me." 

She wrinkled her white brow. "What voices?" she 
asked. "Who calls to you, prince?" 

He turned from her to gaze thoughtfully into the 
depths of burning logs. "Have you ever seen a captive 
eagle, little one?" he asked, "how he beats vain wings 
in hope to be free from his chain. His captors may be 
kind, lavishing all upon him but his one desire — leave 
to mount on free wings to his native eyrie." 

"But you wear no chain," protested the child. "You 
are no captive, Malcolm, but my father's friend — the 
friend of us all." 

Malcolm bowed his head. "Such friends and friend- 
ship as bind my heart in the chains of gratitude for all 
time," he replied. "Nay, I meant not that, little friend, 
but I would fain excuse my grave looks by showing you 
their reason. It is Scotland I crave f or — Scotland." 

"And the man with the rugged face and kind eyes has 
come to take you there," said Margaret tearfully. "Oh, 
Malcolm, will you go?" 

He was silent. Would he go? Would he go? Ah! 
if he could but prove that this last messenger voiced 
Scotland's appeal in his call! 

"I do not know," he muttered. "How can I tell? 
Perhaps — it might be so." 



LOST HOPES 289 

Margaret tried to circle his wrist with her tiny fingers. 

"If you go," she whispered, nodding her head wisely, 
"I shall follow you when I am bigger. Yes, all the way 
to that Scotland of which you have told me so many 
lovely tales, for I would see your purple moors and blue 
lochs and tall, snow-capped mountains. And oh, but I 
shall want to see you too, for I love you and shall grieve 
when you go away." 

Malcolm smiled tenderly. How sweet those words 
sounded to the lonely man. 

"But what would you do?" he asked, "if you made 
all that long journey? I think you would be fretting 
very soon to be home again." 

Margaret looked up into the fair, handsome face from 
which the sternness had vanished. 

"Oh, no," she retorted with childish simplicity. "I 
should stay and be your little wife, and we should always 
love each other and be happy." 

Malcolm did not reply. Once more he was gazing 
into the fire. 

"Tell me," went on his little companion, with quite 
womanly persistence, "would you not be glad to see me 
again?" 

"Of course," he agreed. "Very glad, Margaret, very 
glad. You have^been my friend — a dear and precious 
friend." 

"That is well," she nodded. "I knew you would be 
glad, though when I told Agatha of my purpose she 
laughed and said no doubt you had left a lady-love 
in bonnie Scotland, or you would have had better eyes 
for beauty and women's smiles at the English court. 
Tell me then, prince, what was her name? What color 
were her eyes?" 



290 MACBETH 

"Bethoc," quoth Malcolm slowly. "And her eyes 
were as blue as thine, little princess. But long ago she 
forgot me, I am very sure of that 1 — since her mother is 
Queen of Scotland." 

"Oh!" murmured Margaret, in awe-struck tones. 
"Oh!— then . . . then 

But instinct — and a glimpse of her companion's set 
features checked her inquiry, and instead, she put both 
arms about his neck. 

"Never mind," she whispered, "I will not forget, 
even if it is many, many years that we are parted. One 
day I will be your little wife and make you happy. 
But now, come and play with me and forget all these 
sad things." 

She slipped from his knees and began pulling at his 
wide sleeve, urging him to a game of play in some distant 
gallery, where Edgar and Christian would be awaiting 
her; but Malcolm shook his head, for he had caught 
sight of the stalwart figure of the Thane of Fife standing 
in the shadow against a faded arras, and knew that an 
hour of crisis and destiny was at hand. 

Yet he stooped to kiss the child, whose flower-like face 
was raised to his. 

"Presently, little one," he promised, "presently — but 
not now. See, it is the man with the kind eyes who 
comes to talk to me." 

With one hand still resting against Malcolm's arm, 
Margaret turned to view with resentful eyes the big 
stranger who, Edgar prophesied, had come to take her 
friend away. 

But resentment vanished under the influence of 
Macduff's kindly smile. 

He was thinking of his little sons at home as he stooped 
to kiss the English princess' baby hand. 



LOST HOPES 291 

"Ah!" said he, "I think, httle lady, that you follow 
your sainted father in his gift of healing, though you 
mend hearts instead of bodies." 

Margaret shook her head. 

"I do not understand, lord," she replied; "but when 
you have talked to Malcolm here, will you bring him to 
join our play in the great gallery, and will you come too, 
and tell me how your little Indulph helped to shoot the 
wolf?" 

Macduff promised; but as he spoke kindly to the 
petitioner a cloud gathered over his brow. Thoughts 
of wife and children engendered disquiet, since he was 
so far from them. 

Yet Scotland must be served — and in serving Scotland, 
did he not serve these dear ones too? 

When Margaret had gone, carrying the last rays of 
sunshine with her, the Thane turned impetuously to 
the prince. 

"You have thought of what I spoke on when last we 
conversed together ?" he asked eagerly. 

Malcolm had risen from his seat and stood stirring 
the glowing embers with his heel. 

"A strange and terrible picture you showed me," 
said he. "A picture of oppression, tyranny and crime. 
Yet how shall I know whether the colors wherewith you 
paint are those of reality? Plainly, Thane, I look with 
caution on your picture. All this may be true — it may 
be false. I do not know, and belief goes halting on many 
questions. This tyrant — my sworn enemy — the usurper 
of my rights, was once thought honest; you have loved 
him well. He hath not touched you yet. Will you 
serve him in coming with this message to me?" 

Macduff's face grew very stern; there was resentment 
in the low tones of his reply. 



292 MACBETH 

"I am not treacherous," he said shortly, reading 
distrust both in the prince's speech and manner. 

Malcolm proceeded calmly, as though trying to argue 
out the matter with himself. 

"But Macbeth is," he replied. "I crave you pardon, 
Thane, but must use caution to the uttermost, since I 
cannot read the riddle of your thoughts. We may not 
always judge as we desire. Our eyes grow dim, groping 
beneath the surface. How can I tell your purpose in 
coming hither?" 

Macduff turned away with a groan; his was a nature 
to be ruled by impulse before caution, and he read in the 
prince's suspicions the failure of his mission. 

"I have lost my hopes," he muttered. 

But Malcolm made a gesture of dissent, speaking more 
fiercely, as though still at argument with his natural 
instinct. 

"Perchance you lose your hopes," said he, "where I 
found my doubts. Why did you leave wife and babes 
without leave-taking? I pray you forgive plain speech. 
You may be rightly just, whatever I shall think." 

But Macduff's hot temper could not stand the implied 
hint of treachery. 

With flashing eyes he stood there, half across the hall, 
his clenched hands raised heavenward as though in 
appeal against this injustice. 

"Bleed, bleed, poor country," he groaned; "great 
tyranny shall march in triumph to its goal, since the 
hand that might have checked it lies inert, afraid to 
trust the way which friends have shown. Farewell, 
lord. I would not be the villain you think for the whole 
space that's in the tyrant's grasp and the rich East to 
boot." 



LOST HOPES 293 

He would have flung away in despair and rage had 
not Malcolm again checked him. 

The younger man's face was sphinx-like, his eyes 
were veiled from the other's indignant gaze. 

"Be not offended," he urged. "I will speak more 
plainly, showing I have no fear of you. Listen then, 
Macduff. I think our country sinks beneath the yoke. 
It weeps, it bleeds; and each new day a gash is added 
to her wounds. I think if I raised my banner on my 
native soil that loyal friends would rally round me 
hailing me as deliverer, whilst here, from gracious 
England I have the offer of goodly thousands to march 
at my direction. But for all this, mark well, Macduff, 
when I shall tread upon the tyrant's head or wear it on 
my sword, yet my poor country shall surely find the 
exchange bitter bondage, for me more bitter still — looks 
to a tyrant whose vices far outrun those of her present 
ruler." 

"What mean you?" asked Macduff, perplexed at 
such an argument. "Who shall outdo Macbeth at his 
own trade?" 

Malcolm laid his hand upon his own breast. 

"It is myself, I mean," he replied. "What, you 
know me not, Thane? So long have I been absent from 
my native shores, who was but a lad in quitting them. 
Yet here I do confess that compared with my black 
sinfulness of heart, Macbeth appears white and pure 
as snow." 

"Nay," replied Macduff vehemently, "that I'll not 
believe. In all the legions of hell there is no devil so 
damned in evils as Macbeth." 

Malcolm laughed bitterly, whilst from beneath lowered 
lids he watched the fiery indignation of the other's 
glance. 



294 MACBETH 

"I grant you," he admitted smoothly, "that he is 
bloodthirsty, luxurious,, avaricious, false, deceitful, mali- 
cious, smacking of every sin that hath a name; yet 
add to each and every separate vice ten-fold and call 
it Malcolm's. So you see me stand. So intemperate 
that none dare oppose my will, so full of avarice that 
justice could have no claim for me so long as I could 
make my greedy gains." 

Macduff groaned aloud. Yet he answered earnestly: 
"Such sins of nature are great, but yet against them 
you shall weigh many graces, prince, so that Scotland 
shall not fear to hail you king." 

"Graces?" echoed Malcolm. "Nay, I will be honest. 
I have none. I have no relish for any of those virtues 
which so become the kingly state. Justice, verity, 
temperance, bounty, mercy, lowliness, devotion, patience, 
courage, fortitude, I have no love or taste for. Nay, 
had I the power, I should pour the sweet milk of concord 
into hell, and destroying peace, confound all unity on 
earth." 

Macduff listened aghast to the shameless confession. 
As the prince paused he moved aside, covering his face 
with his hands. 

"Oh, Scotland! Scotland!" he lamented. 

Malcolm watched him, a faint smile playing about 
his firm lips. 

"If such an one be fit to govern, speak," he replied. 
"I am as I have spoken." 

Macduff faced the speaker in a blaze of sudden fury. 

"Fit to govern?" he thundered. "No, not to live. 
Oh, miserable nation, what fate is thine? Governed 
now by a blood-stained usurper, with no hope of future 
freedom from such a curse, since Scotland's rightful 



LOST HOPES 295 

heir stands self-accused, self-damned, unshamed in thus 
blaspheming his own breed. Thy royal father was a 
most sainted king; the queen that bore thee oftener 
upon her knees than on her feet — whilst thou — " 
Slowly he raised his hands above his head. 

"Fare thee well, prince," he groaned. "These evils 
have banished me from Scotland. Alas, my heart, 
thy hopes end here." 

As a man stricken by premature age the Thane 
staggered towards the door, but Malcolm was before 
him, his head thrown back, his whole face alight with 
joy, gladness, a great hope, a brief compunction. 

"Macduff," he cried, seizing the other's reluctant 
hands, "forgive my doubts, those black scruples which 
a traitor's malice bred in me. Your noble passion 
reconciles my thoughts, and being freed from fear of 
hidden craft and wily trap, I yield you henceforth full 
trust and confidence as heretofore you had my love. 
What, you wonder at this change? Shall I tell you how 
devilish Macbeth hath ofttimes sent by such means and 
messengers to lure me to his net? But God above deal 
between thee and me, for even now I put myself under 
thy direction." 

There was a noble yet almost boyish zeal in the rapid 
speech, so that Macduff from the abyss of despair looked 
at him with curious eyes. Looked and saw a man, 
strong-faced and fearless, with nobility of heart stamped 
like some hall-mark of integrity upon his face. 

Could this be the monster of iniquity he had heard 
confessed to by those very lips that hailed him comrade? 

Malcolm was smiling at his friend's perplexity. 

"Here I abjure these taints and blames I laid upon 
myself," he continued. "Never yet have I been for- 



296 MACBETH 

sworn, scarcely have coveted what was mine own, at 
no time broke my faith, would not betray the devil to 
his fellow, and delight no less in truth than life. My 
first false-speaking was to prove thy truth. Now 
proved, I own I am thine, loyal friend, thine and my 
poor country's, to command whither." 

Macduff's grip was like a vise about the hands which 
held his own; his face worked convulsively, his eyes 
were suffused in happy tears. He had no words to 
express the wild up-leaping of hope and joy in his breast. 

Malcolm saw his emotion and smiled with all the 
gladness of youth, which sees the victory ere the battle 
be fought. 

"The King of England," he continued, "hath already 
granted me ten thousand soldiers, generaled by the 
Danish Earl of Northumberland, the gallant Siward. 
What, good Macduff, shall we not march together? 
Oh, great, glad day that sees us on our way to Scotland ! 
To Scotland!" 

His voice ran trumpet-like through the hall, as he 
raised his head, a leader born, who should presently 
marshal his own countrymen to the battle for right, 
freedom — and his own. 



CHAPTER XXXIII 

FULL MEASURE 

THE days following the coming of Macduff, with 
his message of invitation from Scotland's chiefs 
to Scotland's rightful heir, were full of excite- 
ment to Prince Malcolm, and well for him that he had 
the shrewd and temperate advice of such men as the 
Thane of Fife and Earl Siward to keep the new impul- 
siveness of a long repressed nature in check. 

In the first flood of enthusiasm Malcolm might have 
acted with fatal impetuosity. Those were days when 
preparations for war and invasion went slowly — all too 
slowly for hot-headed ardor, and the prince chafed sorely 
as autumn days merged into winter, and both Macduff 
and Earl Siward were unanimous in their advice to 
await the coming of spring. 

With winter snows lying thick upon the mountains 
and drifting dangerously on every northern track, it 
would have been impossible to march into Scotland with 
their English allies. 

So, though the task was hard, it was inevitable, and 
Malcolm guessed indeed that the heaviest burden was 
that of the Thane of Fife, who must spend those inter- 
vening months in anxiety and fear as to the well-being 
of wife, children and lands. Bitterly must Macbeth 
have resented his flight. So much Macduff had guessed 
by the implacable pursuit of the tyrant. But surely 
even Macbeth would not take vengeance upon the 

(297) 



298 MACBETH 

innocent wife and children of his enemy? The Thane 
consoled himself again and again with such assurances, 
yet they failed altogether to satisfy, and as Christmas 
passed and the long days succeeding it drifted by all 
too slowly for his patience, his cheeks grew hollow, his 
eyes were haunted by that unnamed dread which even 
the blandishments of little Margaret could not drive 
away. 

At first the little princess had been inclined to look 
severely on this rugged countryman of her friend 
Malcolm, who was going to carry the latter off back to 
that Scotland which he had taught her to regard as the 
home of fairies and dancing elves, flowery glens and 
purple moors. 

But Macduff's kindliness and tales of little Indulph, 
Odo and baby Joan soon won the small princess into 
a ready listener and sympathizer. 

"I like Indulph the best," she would say; "and 
please tell me the tale of how he helped to slay the 
wolf over again?" 

She had heard all the tales of that happy family 
life in distant Kennoway, not once, but many times, 
before the first green shoots began to show on the bare 
twigs and branches and Malcolm once more grew eager 
and impatient for the full springtide. 

The Thane of Fife had had time to learn the true 
worth of the exiled prince by now, and his love and 
admiration were deep and sincere, though silent. 

It was a strange court, that of England at this time, 
more — as many averred with some discontent — like a 
cloistered monastery than a ruler's palace. Prayer and 
penance were the chief occupations of the saintly king, 
who added to his virtues that of a mysterious healing 



FULL MEASURE 299 

power, so that daily the courtyard of his palace was 
thronged by the sick and suffering of all classes, over 
whom he would pray, hanging a golden stamp about 
their necks, placed there with holy prayers. And all 
England rang with the wonder of his cures, whilst wise 
physicians wagged their heads over the power of faith 
and could offer no reason or explanation why their royal 
master's patients should be so miraculously cured. 

With this strange healing power the king was also 
possessed at times by a spirit of prophecy, so that he 
ruled his subjects in truth by the influence of his virtues 
rather than by the brain of a diplomat or the courage 
of a soldier. 

Yet they loved him, this simple people who fancied 
they saw a halo about their monarch's kindly head, 
and therefore worshipped him as a saint of God. 

Malcolm was not without reverence too for the 
generous benefactor of these years of exile. If his hot 
blood and eager spirit were out of sympathy with the 
gentle dreamer, he was ever ready to kneel humbly at 
the feet of the English king and crave his blessing. And 
in his turn, Edward loved the high-spirited Scotchman, 
son of his well-loved friend, whose tragic death had filled 
him with grief. 

"You will not let the wicked men kill Malcolm as they 
killed his father?" urged little Margaret, as she clung to 
Macduff's hand one day in early February, as the three 
paced the long low gallery of the palace. 

Malcolm would have made some tender rejoinder, 
but checked at sight of the stranger who appeared at 
the other end of the gallery and came striding towards 
them. 

The Thane of Fife, also espying the newcomer, 



300 MACBETH 

loosened his clasp on Margaret's hand and hurried for- 
ward with joyful welcome. 

The little princess stood hesitating for a moment, 
eyeing the man with the long red locks and beard; then 
deciding that she did not like him very much, slipped 
away, leaving the three alone. 

"My countryman," murmured Malcolm, "but yet I 
know him not." 

He would have drawn back, ashamed of that ignor- 
ance, whilst vague memories began to stir in his mind 
of that lean, florid face and ruddy locks, but Macduff 
jogged memory by his eager introduction. 

He and the stranger had returned after their first 
greeting, and, as Macduff named his cousin, a light of 
welcome flashed in Malcolm's gray eyes. 

"Ah, Rosse," said he with some emotion, "I know 
you now; good God, betimes remove the means that 
makes us strangers." 

"Sire, amen," replied Rosse, bowing low over the 
prince's outstretched hand. 

A brief silence followed, though thought was busy in 
the minds of those three who sought for calmness to 
fashion question and answer. 

"Stands Scotland where it did?" asked Macduff — 
yet it was not of Scotland first and foremost that he 
thought. 

Rosse heaved a weary sigh. Here, face to face with 
his deeply-wronged kinsman, he scarcely knew how he 
should find strength and courage to voice his heavy news. 

"Alas, poor country," said he, "almost afraid to know 
itself. It cannot be called our mother, but our grave; 
where nothing but who knows nothing is once seen to 
smile. Where sighs and groans and shrieks that rend 



FULL MEASURE 301 

the air are made, not marked. If a dead man's knell 
is sounded none question as to his name, and good men 
die ere they have time to sicken, passing out of existence 
as a flower withers in an oven." 

"And this is true — too true," echoed Macduff gloomily, 
his eyes fixed on Malcolm's quivering face. 

"What is the newest grief?" asked the prince hoarsely, 
for it seemed to him that this envoy from his native land 
reeked of the charnel house rather than bonnie Scotland, 
whilst every word was a knell sounding hollow, hollow 
as death's voice itself. 

"The newest grief," replied Rosse, growing nervous in 
his despair of a nearing confession. "Why, sir, every 
minute is fraught with some direful news, so that after 
many weeks' absence I cannot tell where last a widow 
wept, an orphan moaned." 

Macduff moved forward. He, too, felt a dread oppres- 
sion of spirit clutch him, so that for the moment Scot- 
land's woes were nothing. 

Fixing his keen eyes steadily on the flushing and pale 
face of his kinsman, he put his question: "How does 
my wife?" 

Rosse flinched and courage failed him as two pictures 
rose before his eyes. Poor Marjory! Poor husband! 

"Why, well," he muttered with averted eyes. 

"And all my children?" 

There was a note of fear in the speaker's tones, for 
Rosse's face played traitor to his words. 

"Well, too," echoed the younger man. 

Macduff drew a deep breath — but not of relief . 

"The tyrant has not battered at their peace?" he 
asked. 

"No," replied Rosse huskily, "they were — well, 
at peace when I did leave them." 



302 MACBETH 

He turned away as he spoke, covering his eyes with 
his hand, though that gesture did not shut out the 
vision of sweet Marjory, bathed in her own blood, her 
babes close pressed against the heart which would never 
beat in love for husband or child again. 

"Be not a niggard of your speech," commanded 
Macduff more fiercely. "How goes it?" 

Rosse raised his head. So much of news he had — 
yet long had been the delay in bringing it. 

"'Twas months ago that I would have answered that 
question had fortune served," said he; "but when I 
left Fife, hot-foot for England, a cruel sickness struck me 
down and kept me tossing upon my fevered couch for 
many weary weeks. The report went forth that I had 
journeyed to England, and thus report, running ahead 
of truth, served me well, for had Macbeth known to the 
contrary, he would never have left go his clutch on me 
save to let me drop into some bloody grave. However, 
after a time I was sufficiently recovered to continue my 
journey. And as I went secretly on my way, rumor 
reached me of many worthy Thanes and lesser chiefs 
who stand in a rebellion against the usurper, who will 
listen to no appeal to mercy, but from bad leaps to worse, 
and from worse to worst, ruling by fear and the long 
sword of vengeance which spares neither for age, youth 
or sex. So, sire," — he turned to Malcolm — "I bid you 
know that now is the time to help. Your eye in Scotland 
would create soldiers, aye, and make our women fight to 
free themselves of their distresses." 

Malcolm smiled. 

"Be it their comfort," he replied. "We are coming 
thither. Gracious England has lent us good Siward 
and ten thousand men. You know the Danish earl 



FULL MEASURE 303 

by his repute, so need it not be said that no better soldier 
could be found in Christendom." 

"Good news indeed/' said Rosse, "and as I stand 
viewing the future I see hope golden-winged upon the 
far horizon beckoning us to Scotland. Your father's 
son will be welcome to your country, who soon shall 
learn to hail you for your own noble sake. Yet, alas, 
alas, I may not gaze towards the future without first 
raising the dark curtain of a fearful past to smite you to 
the heart with such a sight as wrings my heart to speak 
of." r 

"A tale of tragedy?" questioned Macduff. "Then 
tell us, Rosse, if it concerns the general cause or is rather 
to the grief of some single breast?" 

"Whoever hears my tale must weep for pity's sake," 
replied Rosse in low tones of misery. "Yet the main 
part pertains to you alone." 

The stalwart frame seemed to stiffen, the rugged face 
of the iron-nerved Thane became a mask from which 
expression appeared blotted out. 

Thus might a man look who sees instant and terrible 
death before him. 

"If it be mine," he answered. "Keep it not from 
me. Quickly let me have it." 

"Then be prepared for the heaviest tidings your loving 
heart may conceive," said Rosse, his voice trembling. 

Macduff flinched. This hesitation was unendurable. 
Already he guessed what this news must be, and even his 
utmost fortitude quivered before the expected shock. 

"Your castle was surprised," continued Rosse, seeing 
how futile and cruel was further delay. "Your wife 
and babes savagely slaughtered. Do not ask me more, 
since my heart is wrung with anguish at the very thought 



304 MACBETH 

of all I saw when, some few hours after, I reached your 
castle — too late to bring succor to those who even then 
must have been importuning eternal justice for vengeance 
against the slayer, who still lives to plan other murders 
as cruel and remorseless as these." 

Macduff staggered back as though he had been struck 
a mortal blow. His face became gray, his dark eyes 
glazed. He could not speak, but leaned against the wall 
as a man suddenly stricken by paralysis. 

"Merciful Heaven," gasped Malcolm, horrified at 
such terrible tidings, which struck a personal and inti- 
mate note of suffering into the tale of common woe. 
"Can these things be? Nay, friend, give sorrow words, 
lest grief's heavy load bears too heavily upon your heart. 
Alack the day such tidings came to one I love so well." 

He stretched out his hand and took that of Macduff, 
but the latter's lay cold and inert in his clasp. All color 
had drained from the Thane's cheeks, his breath came in 
painful gasps. It seemed that this blow had shattered 
all power of thought, word, action. 

"My children, too?" he whispered presently, as he 
stared before him, seeing in horrible fancy the picture 
which so haunted Rosse. 

The latter bowed his head. 

"Wife, children, servants, all that could be found," 
he replied. 

A shudder shook Macduff's powerful frame. 

"My . . . wife killed too," he reiterated, and there 
was pathetic pleading in his tones as though imploring 
these, his friends, to undo the work of fate. Alas! who 
could undo such a past as that which showed hideous 
and lurid before their mental vision? 

"I have said," replied Rosse. He dared say no more 



FULL MEASURE 305 

just then, knowing full details of that massacre of the 
innocent might well bring madness to a brain so over- 
whelmed by grief. 

"Be comforted/ ' urged Malcolm; "there yet lives 
revenge — shall not that be the medicine of this deadly 
grief? ,, 

Slowly Macduff shook his head, whilst great tears 
rolled down his rugged cheeks. 

"He has no children/ 5 he muttered, looking from 
Malcolm to Rosse. "All my pretty ones? Did you 
say all? Oh, hell-rite! All? What, all my pretty 
chickens and their mother at one fell swoop?" 

An agony of grieving wrung the speaker's heart and 
beads of sweat gathered on his brow as realization came 
to further increase his despair. 

"Dispute it like a man," urged Malcolm — not un- 
sympathetic, but longing to aid his sorely-stricken 
friend by inspiration of rage against the foul perpetrator 
of this malice. 

But Macduff only sighed, too crushed by woe as yet 
to feel the kindling of the other's fire. 

"I shall do so," he replied with a groan, "but I must 
also feel it as a man. I cannot but remember such things 
were — that were most precious to me. My home, my 
wife, sweet, loving Marjory, my pretty babes, the gallant 
little Indulph, curly-headed Odo, my daughter Joan — 
her mother's image. Nay, nay, nay. Did Heaven look 
on and would not take their part? Sinful Macduff, they 
were all struck for me. Innocent in their loves, their 
thoughts, their love; mine was the life the tyrant sought, 
but failing mine, took theirs, hoping to strike me thus. 
Oh, monstrous crime! My sweet ones. Heaven rest 
them now." 



306 MACBETH 

Brokenly he spoke, moving his hands as one that 
gropes to thrust aside the black and hateful pall of night 
and call his thoughts the mad delirium of tortured sleep. 

Yet this was no delirium, but the truth. Did not 
Rosse's haggard face and Malcolm's distressful bearing 
tell him as much? They grieved for him, these friends, 
yet in that hell in which he lay their pity touched him 
not. Did he not see those dear, dead loves, his sweet- 
eyed wife, the laughing, gallant little lads, his sons, 
his darling daughter, all standing in the sunlight, near 
the drawbridge of the old gray castle, bidding him wel- 
come whenever he rode within earshot of their glad cries? 

How they had been used to cling to him, him whom 
they loved — their protector, stay and prop! 

Alack! Alack! A protector who had failed to hear 
their bitter cries, a stay and prop which had left them 
to fall in the sad throes of dreadful death. No wonder 
the anguish of such thoughts drove the bereaved husband 
and father near to madness. 

"Be this the whetstone of your sword," pleaded 
Malcolm, intent on rousing him from this abyss of grief. 
"Let anger take the place of sorrow. Stir your bruised 
heart to vengeance." 

Macduff raised his shaggy head and at last a fierce 
light leapt in his dim eyes. 

"Oh, I could play the woman with mine eyes and 
braggart with my tongue," he cried thickly. "But 
gentle Heaven give me grace in this. Bring this fiend of 
Scotland face to face with me. Set him within my 
sword's length; if he escape, Heaven forgive him too." 

He raised his hand aloft as though in the enaction 
of a solemn oath; then, covering his face with his plaid, 
he abruptly quitted the gallery. 



FULL MEASURE 307 

But the news brought by Rosse had proved the 
trumpet call for action. There should be no longer 
delay. Here was clear proof — if proof were needed — 
that some insensate fiend of cruelty possessed Macbeth, 
so that he, who at one time had been a brave soldier and 
loyal subject, was now the worst and most bloodthirsty 
tyrant. Ambition and remorse, diverse motives, joined 
hand in hand in one man's soul, had lashed him along a 
slippery ascent stained with his victims' blood. 

Now the measure of his crimes was full. The avenger 
was ready to march to his overthrow. 

Bitterly though he deplored this latest act of cruelty, 
sorely as he grieved with his friend, Malcolm Canmore 
would have been less than human had not his heart beat 
high and his pulses leapt joyfully as he quitted the land 
of exile to win, with these good allies' aid, a kingdom 
which was rightfully his own. 

A kingdom! What dreams were those the prince 
dreamed that last night when he kept vigil through the 
long hours of darkness in eager anticipation of the 
morrow. 

A king, a deliverer, the one his people would welcome 
when he set them free of cruel bondage. What vows he 
vowed, what high hopes he held, nor amidst such 
thoughts was a yet tenderer one lacking. 

Had not the Thane of Fife told him the story of 
Bethoc and given him her message? 

Sweet Bethoc! How he had loved her; and though 
the music of that springtide had grown faint in his 
ears, the haunting melody was very sweet. 

Would it be possible to take up the broken thread 
where it had snapped? To recall an idyll of spring 
since springtide again was here? 



308 MACBETH 

He smiled whimsically as he thought of the little 
Princess Margaret and her simple statement that she 
meant to be his wife one day. 

Ah! tomorrow he would be saying farewell to Mar- 
garet, to her sainted father, to all this English court, 
these English scenes and friends. It was Scotland he 
wanted, Scotland for which he pined, hungered, thirsted. 

Scotland — and Bethoc. Again — Scotland! 

Ah! what voices called him to that dear land of his 
birth! 

Love, duty, patriotism, revenge. They called — and 
he was answering! Did not the joy of that moment 
almost make up for the long years of waiting and exile? 

But on the morrow little Margaret's arms were fast 
about his neck and her tears fell hotly on his cheek. 

"I do not want you to go," sobbed the child. "You 
are my friend. I love you very much, and . . . and 
Edgar says you will never come back, because . . . 
because you are going to kill the wolf which . . . which 
killed poor little Indulph and Odo. I want the wolf 
killed, and I cried because their poor father is so sad 
. . . and Indulph was very brave . . . but please, 
Prince Malcolm, I ... I want you to remember when 
the wolf is dead I shall come to Scotland and be your 
little wife." 

He kissed her quivering lips and smiled into the tear- 
drenched blue eyes, comforting her as best he could, 
promising that he would always be very glad to welcome 
her to Scotland when the wicked wolf was dead. 

Was the father's spirit of prophecy given to the child — 
or was it merely the chance words we so often find ful- 
filled in after life that prompted Margaret's reply? 

"I shall come," she said, stretching out her small 



FULL MEASURE 309 

arms to him from the palace steps as he sat mounted on 
his great black horse before her. "And I shall be your 
little wife and love you very much, always — always." 

The spring breezes blew the long white veil like a 
streamer about her and tossed her golden curls into 
picturesque confusion. 

It was a dainty picture which Malcolm Canmore 
carried away with him in his memory as he turned his 
horse's head northwards. 



CHAPTER XXXIV 

THE UNHAPPY QUEEN 

^fc^ffTT TOULD we were hence," sighed the weary 
%^^ queen, and let her thin hands drop list- 
lessly against the gray parapet of the 
castle wall as she stood there alone, staring with lack- 
lustre eyes across the plain, to where, beyond the forest 
of Birnam, rose the jagged and rocky heights of great 
mountain peaks. Spring had come and the king was 
here established in his strong castle of Dunsinane, 
built with the sweat of vassals and the subjugation of 
proud chieftains who had been forced to help in the 
work at their own charges and with the tribute of their 
own men's labor. 

Thus the king ruled — a sovereign feared by all — loved 
by none, saving it were such as Seyton, his loyal officer, 
and Donald, his servant. Even they, however, had 
reason to look askance at the king's commands of late, for 
Macbeth, urged by his fear to his own destruction, clung 
with childish faith to the letter of the commands issued 
by those dread visions in the witches' cavern. 

Had he not been bidden to be bloody, bold and 
resolute, taking no care where conspirers were? 

Well! he had obeyed, and here he ruled from his 
strong fortalice of Dunsinane, dealing out vengeance on 
all rebels — when he could track them, though of late it 
had needed all his faith in the faithful prophecies to 
believe his throne was still firm beneath him. 

(310) 



THE UNHAPPY QUEEN 311 

Many of the Thanes had followed Macduff's example 
and crossed the border. Others were locked in their 
impregnable fortresses of the north, defying siege, whilst 
rumors grew thick that Prince Malcolm with an English 
host moved northwards against him. 

Macbeth ignored the rumors, scoffed at warnings 
and secretly cherished the promises made to him by 
Fate. 

Had not the weird sisters shown that their art was to 
be relied on most securely? Again and again their 
prophecies had come true — and they, by the mouth of 
conjured spirits, had declared that no man born of woman 
should hurt Macbeth. Yet the spring found the king 
gloomy and passionate, knowing himself hated, yet 
resolved to trample hatred under the bloody heel of 
fear; feeling the acute agony of remorse, though stifling 
it under a vaunting pride of satisfied ambition. 

Satisfied! Why, who should not be? Was he not 
king of Scotland, able to slay his enemies by a nod of his 
head, to conquer rebellion at the point of the sword, 
and command obedience by the tyranny of terror? 

Yet, loudly as he might prate, the king's brow was 
dark, and many a black vigil he kept when blood-stained 
ghosts thronged beside his bed. Dig he ever so deeply, 
climb he ever so high, he could not escape those haunting 
visions. Nor was this all. 

For many months past the queen's health had caused 
him much anxiety. Proudly though she played her part, 
clever in her scheming, shrewd in probing secret depths 
of disaffection, regal though she was in all her duties 
and entertainments, none knew better than her husband 
of those sleepless nights, those haunting dreams, the 
dreary moanings of a mind diseased, when none but he 
was nigh to hear and see. 



312 MACBETH 

Month by month, too, the proud beauty of her face 
was fading; she grew thin, haggard, her dark eyes 
restless, fear-filled. 

The haunted queen, some called her — and called her 
aright. 

Yet never, even to her husband, did she unclose her 
lips to tell him the secret of her malady. 

Only since coming to Dunsinane the malady had 
seemed to grow apace. She was depressed, nervous, 
always wandering from room to room or pacing to and fro 
on the battlements, staring out over the surrounding 
country, whilst she whispered to herself in an undertone 
over and over again the same words which none could 
catch. 

She was whispering now as she stood there leaning 
over the parapet, making a vivid patch of color in her 
close-fitting gown of crimson cloth, her plaid fastened 
by a jeweled clasp upon her bosom, her long veil floating 
in the wind, whilst with her chin resting on her hand, 
she gazed towards the spring-time woods. 

"Would I were hence," she reiterated, "where they 
could not mock me. See . . . how they throng from 
out those woods — the ghosts which will not rest — nor 
let me sleep either." 

A voice sounded shrill and clear. The queen started, 
whilst her breaths came in short gasps. 

Who called? 

After all it was only her son, Lulach, who came racing 
up to the tower-top. He searched for Seyton and 
scarcely heeded the wan mother who crouched yonder, 
startled by his clatter. 

It was the king himself who came next, gloomy and 
forbidding, since rumors grew black and could not all 
be denied. Was his kingdom in revolt against tyranny? 



THE UNHAPPY QUEEN 313 

Nay! he would not credit it. Only it was plain that 
he must show a greater firmness, less tolerance with 
revolting subjects. The iron heel of the monarch should 
crush down the rebels — down, down. 

And if Malcolm came, why, that was all he asked for. 

Once slay the viper and the poison of rebellion would 
die. And with Malcolm, Macduff should perish. 

So the king swore, storming as he paced to and fro, 
whilst the pale queen leaned back against the battle- 
ments, eyeing him with vacant stare, gaping at him with 
parted lips. She who had been the inspiration of those 
deeds which set him first upon the slippery ladder of 
ambition. 

And because her wan apathy brought fear to his 
heart, the king had need to vent his anger on the girl 
who presently climbed the winding stair to gaze, as was 
her secret wont, southwards and dream of him who 
might be journeying hither from far-off England. 

Since the day when Bethoc had defied and foiled him 
by carrying warning to the Thane of Fife there had been 
little love or liking in the king's warped heart for his 
stepdaughter. 

Now he turned savagely upon her, cursing her in his 
ill-humor. 

"What!" he cried, "you would spy upon me then, 
creeping adder that you are? But have a care. Spies 
meet with ill-fate at my hands, nor will I spare because 
you are a woman and my kin." 

Bethoc faced him calmly. She had no fear just now, 
since life was chaotic here at Dunsinane and a black 
dread cast ever its shadow on her sunshine. 

"Nay," she retorted with spirit. "I know, sire, you 
would not spare because I am a woman and your kin." 



314 MACBETH 

Macbeth paled. 

Did the jade accuse? Was there threatening in her 
eyes? Again he cursed. 

" Beware," he warned. "I know how to deal with 
spies. I'll run no risks, girl." 

She moved away, having noted how her mother 
swayed, clinging to the gray stone behind her. 

The queen shuddered as she felt her daughter's touch. 

"Take me hence," she moaned. "I am sick. Where 
is the physician? I would have his tendance. Do 
you not see that I am very sick?" 

Bethoc looked into the wan face and a great fear lay 
cold upon her heart. 

Whence came this sickness which bowed a proud head 
in the dust? 

In silence she led her mother away. Macbeth cursed 

as he watched them go. Why did he fancy mocking 

laughter was in the air above him? 

The laughter of Ilda the witch. 
* * * * * • * « * 

The queen was abed. She was very weary, she com- 
plained. When she had slept she would be better. 
Thus night fell upon the Castle of Dunsinane. 

The king had withdrawn to his separate apartment. 

He could not rest for listening to his consort's weary 
tossing — so the queen slept — or waked — alone. 

Poor soul! — was sleep any better than wakefulness? 

Grizel, her faithful gentlewoman, often asked herself 
the question. She was distressed for her mistress' sake, 
while the same haunting dread with which this Castle 
of Dunsinane seemed filled oppressed her too. 

So great was her anxiety that she had made a confidant 
of the wise leech who had been summoned hither by 
Macbeth to attend the queen. 



THE UNHAPPY QUEEN 315 

"At night, " she told him, "her Majesty will rise from 
her bed, throw her cloak over her nightgown, unlock her 
closet, take forth paper, fold it, write upon it, read it, 
afterwards seal it and again return to bed; yet all this 
while in a most fast sleep." 

The doctor wagged his gray head most sagely. Here 
was a case to try his utmost skill. Yet he would not 
show himself baffled at the onset. 

"A great perturbation in nature," said he. "And 
besides this watchfulness, this walking, does she speak?" 

Grizel hesitated. 

"Why, yes," she admitted, "I have heard her speak." 

"What does she say? Do you find a clue to this 
malady in her talk? Some weighty care which, hidden 
by day, finds voice at night?" 

But the other shook her head, while her brow clouded, 

"What she saith," replied she, "I will not report 
after her." 

The doctor frowned. This was a case for discretion, 
caution and much interest. And since his ears, like 
those of the rest of his profession, were kept pricked for 
news, he admitted to curiosity, remembering certain 
rumors. So he assumed his most professional air. 

"It is most meet and necessary you should tell me," 
he argued, tapping his forehead; "till the disease is 
known, of what use is it to prescribe medicines?" 

But Grizel snapped her lips viciously. 

"Neither to you nor any one," she retorted, "having 
no witness to confirm my speech, will I confide the tale." 

The physician shook his head. "I must know," said 
he, "for there is no doubt the queen is ill." 

His companion sighed — she was attached to her 
mistress and, being harsh of nature, overlooked her 
faults with rugged concern. 



316 MACBETH 

"That much I could have told you," said she, and 
moved across the inner court towards a closed door, in 
whose shadow she paused as though harkening to some 
far-off and familiar tread. 

Neither the doctor nor the queen's lady noticed a slim 
figure dressed in a dark green gown crouching down in 
the shadow between the stair and castle wall. 

But Bethoc waited, having played eavesdropper by 
chance alone, since she had stolen from her room to the 
tower, where a friendly sentinel took no heed of the 
drooping figure which nightly leaned against the rampart, 
looking out over the moonlit landscape which spread in 
a gleaming panorama below her. 

Thus it was that Bethoc was witness, unseen and 
involuntary, of that meeting between her mother's 
gentlewoman and the doctor. Aye! and whilst her 
pulses beat in swift hammering of premonition, she 
heard Grizel's low exclamation of horror as she stretched 
out her hand and caught at the doctor's long black 
sleeve. 

"Lo you, here she comes," cried the attendant beneath 
her breath. 

"See, as I told you, she is fast asleep. Observe her 
— stand close." 

The two shrank back against the closed door. From 
where they stood they were in shadow, so that Bethoc 
no longer saw them, though from time to time their 
whispers reached her. She herself, from a yet safer 
hiding-place, had a clear view of the figure already 
descending the winding stair. 

Moonlight fell athwart the shadows, the cold, white 
rays shaming the yellow glare of the little lamp the queen 
carried in one hand while shading the flame with the 



THE UNHAPPY QUEDN 317 

other. She was dressed in a white nightgown, over 
which was flung a long cloak, her tawny tresses lying 
warm and ruddy about her shoulders; there were 
streaks of silver in the red-gold tresses, though the fact 
was scarcely noticeable from a distance. But it was her 
face whereon time and ceaseless care had stamped the 
greatest change within a few short years. 

Bethoc had hardly realized the fact till now, when 
the flare of light showed her that haggard and emaciated 
countenance peering down upon her with unseeing eyes. 

The rounded contour of a perfect beauty had gone, 
there was sagging flesh about the lean throat, a pinched 
pain round the trembling lips, hollow cheeks and quiver- 
ing nostrils. But the eyes themselves held those three 
watchers dumb in horror, so fixed were they, so piteous 
in their agony; startled, too, as though Kstening to some 
voice of doom ever echoing in their owner's ears. Eyes 
which had gazed on tortured death might look so, but 
wherefore had such an expression fixed itself into 
the gaze of Scotland's queen? — the woman whose highest 
ambition had been gained, her triumph absolute, her 
revenge secured! 

"How came she by that light?" asked the doctor, 
and Bethoc started at sound of the whisper. Not so 
the queen. Slowly she continued to descend, the lamp 
she carried illumining her face and figure, whilst the 
moonlight lay in patches upon the stairs and inner 
courtyard beneath. 

Where neither moonlight nor lamp shone was black 
darkness. 

"Why," answered Grizel, replying to the whispered 
question, "it stood by her couch. She has light by 
her continually; 'tis her command." 



318 MACBETH 

"You see/' said the doctor, "her eyes are open." 

"Aye, but their sense is shut." 

Silence again. The sleeping woman had set down the 
lamp and advanced into the fuller circle of moonlight. 

Ah! those eyes, those eyes! Bethoc would fain have 
hidden her own, would fain have screamed out and fled. 
Why was she here? Was it that now, now in this 
unexpected hour, she was to hear confirmation of those 
fears that had haunted her for years past. 

What part had her mother had in Duncan's death? 

How she had crushed the torment of that question 
down within her breast, answering wildly, "Nothing, 
nothing, nothing!" 

What part had her mother had in Duncan's death? 

Would she be able to answer "nothing" after that 
night's drama had been played before her eyes? And 
if not, what then? What then — remembering Malcolm 
was Duncan's son and avenger. 

Her mother. 

The figure in the moonlight was standing still, twisting 
and clasping thin hands together. 

"What is it she does now?" asked the doctor in a low 
whisper. "Look how she rubs her hands." 

White hands, frail hands. But Bethoc recalled how 
she had seen them stained and dyed in blood. 

"It is an accustomed action with her," Grizel was 
replying, "to seem thus washing her hands. I have 
known her continue in this a quarter of an hour." 

The queen turned, stooping her head as though to 
gaze at something. 

A curious thrill shook Bethoc from head to foot. Her 
mother was speaking. 

How the sound of that monotonous, complaining voice 



THE UNHAPPY QUEEN 319 

stabbed the air, bringing swift agony to one listener's 
heart. 

"Yet here's a spot/' said the queen, raising her right 
hand and staring in vague horror upon its lily whiteness, 
"Out, damned spot! . . . out, I say! One . . . two 
.... Why, then 'tis time to do it. ..." 

She broke off with little sobbing breaths of excitement, 
as one who waits in dread suspense. 

Bethoc huddled closer to the wall, conscious of a 
numbness about her heart, a chill in every limb. 

Her mother! 

Suddenly the queen uttered a discordant cry of 
mockery which echoed weirdly in the surrounding silence, 
whilst she drew her wrap around her as though the chill 
of night touched her blood. 

"Hell is murky/' she moaned, then laughed in a 
shriller key. 

"Fie, my lord, fie!" she rebuked. "A soldier, and 
afraid? What need we fear who knows it when none 
can call our power to account? Yet who would have 
thought there would have been so much blood ... so 
much blood — " 

She swayed a little, stretching out her hands, then 
once more recommencing imaginary washing as she 
mumbled on. 

"The Thane of Fife had a wife," she sighed. "Where 
is she now? . . . What! will these hands ne'er be 
clean? No more o' that, my lord, no more o' that; 
you mar all with this starting." 

Bethoc shuddered. There was winter cold about her. 
Her fears had taken shape and towered like some great 
barrier above her. A barrier! — and on the other side 
— Malcolm. Alas! Alas! She could never reach that 



320 MACBETH 

other side now — never. Did she not know as clearly 
as though she had been an eye-witness of all the part 
her mother had played in her husband's crimes which 
paved the way to fulfilled ambition? 

While moonlight had shown her the truth as clearly 
writ as in a book. 

And at the moment the heart-broken girl had no 
shred of pity for the unhappy creature whom fear and 
remorse had crazed. 

In the farther corner the doctor and lady-in-waiting 
were whispering together. 

The queen's speech had been unmistakable. 

"She has spoken what she should not," declared 
Grizel, self-reproachful that there should have been a 
witness to those strange actions and words. "Heaven 
knows what she has known." 

Surely heaven knew, indeed — but the tragedy was 
that the innocent suffered with the guilty. 

Again the queen spoke in slow, detached tones, which 
told how utter weariness of the body fought with rest- 
lessness of spirit. 

"Here's the smell of blood still," she complained. 
"All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little 
hand." 

She fell to sobbing in helpless self-pity. 

"This disease is beyond my practice," whispered the 
doctor. "It will be hard to find a cure for it, indeed." 

Aye — his other listener agreed right heartily there. 
What cure could there be for such remorse? What 
power could bring back the dead or strike down that 
barrier which had sprung up between the queen's 
daughter and King Duncan's son? 

"Wash your hands, put on your nightgown," com- 



THE UNHAPPY QUEEN 321 

manded the sleeper, more shrilly fretful; "look not so 
pale! I tell you yet again, Banquo's buried ... he 
. . . cannot come out of his grave." 

Could he not? Could he not? The king might have 
told a different tale. 

"To bed, to bed," cried the queen excitedly; "there's 
knocking at the gate. Come, come, come, come, give 
me your hand; what's done cannot be undone. To 
bed, to bed, to bed." 

With hasty, swaying steps she reached the stairs, 
snatched up the lamp and hurried away — a flitting ghost 
which had all unwittingly told over the tale of the crimes 
of waking hours. 

She had gone — but the sound of some dreary knell 
still tolled in Bethoc's ears. 

Did she not know now at whose whisper, by whose 
instigation, Duncan had died that fearsome night at 
Inverness? 

It was all so plain now. Motive and action were clear. 
Child though she had been, she still recalled the moment 
when she had crouched by her young mother's side and 
watched the blazing castle in whose flames her gallant 
father had perished. 

That had been the deed of Kenneth the Grim. 

And Duncan was Kenneth's son. 

The sins of the fathers upon the children. Inexorable 
decree ! 

The sins of the mothers upon the daughters! No 
less sure a curse. 

With burning eyes Bethoc gazed from her hiding place 
and saw that phantom barrier standing between her and 
the man she loved so passionately. 

A barrier none could break. 



322 MACBETH 

She set her lips firmly, biting them till the blood came, 
to keep back the wild cry which surged in her heart. 

"Malcolm! Malcolm!" 

Fierce by nature, passionate in love and hate was 
Gruoch, granddaughter of Kenneth the Grim. 

No less passionate was this her child — the child she 
had never loved, whose life she had blighted, yet who 
had so much of her own nature. 

Passionate in love was Bethoc, without her mother's 
fierce vindictiveness of temper, and that passionate 
nature was on the cross now, suffering as only such 
hearts can suffer. 

And the barrier rose high before her mental vision. 

Malcolm, son of Duncan, was on the other side. 

The doctor and his companion were re-crossing the 
courtyard towards the stairs. Grizel was in haste to 
return to her mistress with whom she slept. 

"The queen," said the doctor very gravely, "more 
needs the divine than the physician. God, God, for- 
give us all. Look after her, remove from her the means 
of all annoyance and still keep eyes upon her. I dare 
not think of all that we have heard, yet a great pity 
grows within me. It is amazing, incredible. Yet we 
shall do well to forget all if we can. Forget all!" 

Those two words lingered mockingly in other ears 
than those of Grizel, the queen's favorite gentlewoman. 
Though neither she nor the worthy physician had seen 
the girl who, crouching there in the shadows, saw love 
pass out of her life — forever. 



CHAPTER XXXV 

A DIZZY SUMMIT 

RUMOR had crystallized into certainty at last. 
More than one courier had come exhausted to 
Dunsinane with the news that the English force, 
under the Earl of Northumberland, with Prince Malcolm 
and the Thane of Fife in their company, already 
approached the castle, and that their ranks were being 
joined by most of the Scottish nobles, such as Menteith, 
Caithness, Angus and Lennox, all of whom hailed Mal- 
colm as their rightful king and declared that the day had 
arrived to break a tyrant's power. 

Such news might well have struck dismay into the 
hearts of the most confident. But Macbeth, though 
his mood was black, laughed at the fears of the few 
remaining supporters who had gathered about him at 
Dunsinane, whilst at the same time he talked threaten- 
ingly of the bloody vengeance he would take on all 
traitors. 

That such vengeance would well nigh leave him 
subjectless if taken he pretended to ignore, though 
every messenger brought the tale of fresh defaulters, and 
it was clear that his enemies, confident in their strength, 
intended to besiege his impregnable fortress. 

The castle it had been his pride and pleasure to build 
was well situated indeed, standing on the summit of 
high Dunsinane Hill, about 1,012 feet above the level 
of the sea. The building occupied an oval area 210 feet 

(323) 



324 MACBETH 

long and 130 feet wide, and was defended both by a 
rampart and by fosses quite round the upper part of the 
hill. 

From the walls a magnificent panoramic view was 
obtained of Angus, Fife, Stermond and Ernedale. 
Mountains, rivers, moors and forests gave their varied 
touches to the beauty of the scene and might well have 
inspired a patriotic fervor in the mind of any monarch. 

But Macbeth's gaze was jaundiced as he gazed out 
over that fair scene, scarcely noting the loveliness of 
Nature's springtide. 

Before him stood the latest courier, a man who sweated 
and gasped with the speed in which he had come. 

"Bring me no more reports," stormed the king, his 
wild eyes roving restlessly around; "let them fly all. I 
have no fear. What was it that was said? Till Birnam 
wood removed to Dunsinane, my crown should rest 
secure upon my head. Till Birnam wood remove to 
Dunsinane." 

He glared upon the fainting courier, who staggered 
away, deeming the king was mad. 

Poor, credulous king! Even now, aye, more than 
ever now, he clung to the word of those who had been 
charged with his damnation. 

So now he laughed, though, as he turned and saw 
Bethoc seated near with Lulach beside her, he scowled. 
The indifference he had always felt for his stepdaughter 
had ripened into something like hatred since the day 
she had defied him and saved the Thane of Fife from his 
vengeance. 

Now, catching a look of interest and curiosity in her 
quiet gaze, he cursed her for a spy, threatening her as 
he had often threatened before, till Lulach, who was the 



A DIZZY SUMMIT 325 

stepfather's favorite and who, for all his wilfulness, 
was fond of his sister, flung his arm protectingly about 
her. With a last curse, Macbeth turned from them both 
and reached the parapet from which he leaned, viewing 
the strength of his fortifications with satisfaction. 

" What's the boy Malcolm?" he muttered, reassuring 
himself. "Was he not born of woman? Ha, then, 
he'll touch me not. How said those dread spirits which 
read the future of we mortals with clear eyes of truth? 
Fear not, Macbeth; no man that's born of woman shall 
e'er have power on thee. Then fly, false Thanes! Join 
forces with the English; I fear you not. I have no doubt 
of the conflict's issue. I laugh at threats and omens, 
knowing the truth of ail the future holds." 

He tossed back his lank locks, folded his arms, standing 
there, defiant though alone. 

Lulach, curious to hear more of what that jaded 
courier had to say, had descended from the tower. 
Bethoc yet fingered, gazing curiously at the man who 
stood with his back towards her, his face raised as he 
stared in the direction of Birnam woods, beautiful now 
in the fresh greenery of full springtide foliage. 

Bethoc was repeating to herself those words which 
Macbeth had given utterance to. 

Rumor had long been busy about a court where 
tongues wagged fast in idle gossip concerning the weird 
sisters on whose council and prophecies the king set such 
account. 

So this was what had been said by those hell-hags wno 
had sold their immortal souls for a devil's fee. Macbeth 
was not to be vanquished till Birnam wood came to 
Dunsinane, nor should he be conquered by man born of 
woman. 



326 MACBETH 

Bethoc trembled. If this were true prophecy, then 
Malcolm would be marching to his death, and though 
Prince Malcolm was no longer lover of her, she loved 
him well. Aye! loved him better than life itself. 

So Bethoc lingered, wondering by what means she 
might give warning to one whose danger might be 
imminent, since his enemy lived in such security. 

A servant's hurried entrance checked her thoughts. 

This was a poor kerne, grimed and no less sweating 
than his predecessor. But there was more fear in his 
eyes. A terror which was sufficient to subjugate the fear 
of his angry lord. 

Macbeth had turned scowling upon him. The air 
just now had seemed full of laughter — mocking laughter. 
And the voice had been that of Ilda the witch. 

"The devil damn thee black, thou cream-faced loon," 
he cursed. "Where didst thou get that goose look?" 

The man's knees were trembling under him. 

"There be ten thousand — " he stuttered. 

The king raised a mocking laugh. 

"Geese, villain?" he gibed. 

The man shook his matted locks vigorously. 

"Soldiers, sire," he gabbled. 

"Thou lily-livered boy!" raged Macbeth. "Death 
of my soul! Those linen cheeks of thine are counselors 
to fear. What soldiers, whey-face?" 

The poor fellow was almost speechless between fear of 
his master and fear of his news. 

"The English force, so please you, sire," he mouthed. 

The king turned his back on him, and it was Bethoc 
who beckoned the scared menial away, telling him to 
go below and get wine, since there was no immediate 
fear. 



A DIZZY SUMMIT 327 

Yet did she not doubt her own words? — since fear 
seemed to haunt the very atmosphere of Dunsinane. 

Meantime, Macbeth, more sick at heart than he would 
have chosen to admit, descended from the tower and 
hurried to the queen's apartments. He had not seen her 
lately. Truth to tell, her sick fancies disturbed him, 
her haunted eyes had a power to reproach him such as 
naught else possessed. 

Was this the goal his soul had coveted? This the 
summit of ambition? 

Rather it seemed to the moody monarch that his feet 
had found some arid and desolate plain where no breath 
of human love or sympathy could live. Here, in place 
of warm friendship's glances, his eyes beheld the wan 
and terrible faces of those ghosts which were his crimes. 
Murder and oppression were the very atmosphere of 
this chill place, for which he had bartered honor, esteem, 
his very soul. 

Aye, and for what? The heavy circlet that made his 
throbbing temples ache as he counted up the cost by 
which it had been bought? The woman he had loved 
so passionately that at her prayer he had killed his 
master, liege and king? 

Well, here she sat to requite him; here, wild-eyed, 
fear-haunted, glancing in timid terror from right to left, 
shrinking at sight of him, moaning and beating her thin 
breast, whilst she raised a haggard face, from which all 
trace of former beauty had been erased. 

Alas! in spite of all the despair to which he only 
yielded when alone and even pride had left him, he could 
not curse his wife. 

Though it had been her sin and his weakness, he loved 
her still. 



328 MACBETH 

This was an added pang to all those demon thrusts 
of dread retribution. He loved her, yet saw her suffering 
more pains than he had felt heretofore. Saw her terror 
and her agony, but could not soothe her or scare that fear 
away. 

Silent footed through his strong castle walked a foe 
he could not bar out nor barricade against. Nor might 
he pray, seeing only visions of blood between himself 
and mercy's altar. 

So, foolish king, he defied instead. Defied all power 
but the devilish one whose aid he had Sought. 

The weird sisters had been true prophets in the past. 
He held to them now and sought out the queen's physi- 
cian, persuaded that he, the king, might hope to triumph 
still over life and death, the evil and the good. 

He found the doctor in an ante-chamber talking to 
,Grizel, but the gentlewoman quitted the room at the 
king's entrance, after one deep obeisance and swift, 
pitying look. 

Somehow the pity angered Macbeth. 

"How does your patient, doctor?" he asked curtly. 

The old man glanced up quickly from the mixing of 
some draught. 

"Not so sick, your majesty," he answered, "as she is 
troubled with thick-coming fancies that keep her from 
her rest." 

The king frowned, rapping with his knuckles upon the 
table. 

"Cure her of that," he commanded. "What! canst 
thou not minister to a mind diseased; pluck from the 
memory a rooted sorrow; raze out the written troubles 
of the brain; and with some sweet, oblivious antidote, 
calm all the troubled nerves so that the burdened heart 
knows peace again, and health be thus restored?" 



A DIZZY SUMMIT 329 

The other sighed. Here, indeed, was a task which, 
if he could accomplish it, should win him fame and 
blessing throughout the world. But it was beyond 
human skill. 

Yet he answered cautiously, knowing the fury of the 
king's sudden passions. 

"My liege," said he, "in such matters the patient must 
minister to himself. " 

Macbeth laughed bitterly. Could none help their 
need? Were he and his queen alone, shipwrecked in the 
ocean of their success and glory? 

"Throw physic to the dogs," he mocked. "Unless, 
good doctor, thou canst find some drug or draught to 
purge my sick land from its fell disease and restore it 
to a sound and pristine health. If thou couldst do this 
I would applaud thee to the very echo that should 
applaud again. What medicine is there which should 
scour these English hence? Hearest thou of them?" 

He leaned across the table, his burning gaze seeking 
the startled one of the white-haired old man, who 
trembled as he marked the mad fire of the speaker's 
glance. 

"Aye, my good lord," he faltered; "your royal 
preparation makes us hear something." 

Macbeth straightened himself, still mocking. 

"Preparation?" he echoed. "Yes, they shall find 
us prepared — What? Did one talk of fear? I tell you, 
doctor, that was a scurvy knave who for his cowardice 
shall hang high from the battlements. Macbeth knows 
no fear. Is it not decreed that no foe shall stand as victor 
over him till Birnam wood comes to Dunsinane?" 

The doctor started, turning pale. 

The king eyed him suspiciously. 



330 MACBETH 

"What now, sirrah ?" quoth he. "Why should you 
blanch as though you grieve to hear that my foes shall 
quail?" 

The other shook his head. 

"Nay, my liege," he replied. "I started because 
me thought I heard laughter in the air above me, and by 
my soul, its sound was very evil." 

Macbeth knit his brows in a frown of displeasure. 

"See to it that her majesty rests," he commanded. 
"And let not her fancies reproduce themselves in your 
own imagination." 

The doctor looked after the king's retreating figure 
with grave eyes. Then he returned to the preparation 
of his draught with a heavy sigh. 

"One thing is very sure," he murmured. "If I could 
but be away from Dunsinane, neither command nor bribe 
would draw me hither again." 

"Why, there am I at a mind with you, sir," replied a 
voice, which so startled him that he spilled half his 
carefully concocted draught as he looked up to encounter 
the mournful gaze of the Lady Bethoc. 

His^ eyes grew kindly in expression, however, as he 
listened to her faltering apology. 

"I but came," said she, "to hear how the queen pro- 
gressed. Will she see me this evening?" 

The old man looked pained. 

"Nay, dear lady," he replied, "'tis a visit I must 
forbid. Strange though it seemeth, your coming, more 
than that of any other, brings these fevered fancies upon 
your mother, so that she grows excited and distraught. 
You must not grieve at this, for when the mind is sick 
and troubled, our dearest oft become as though they 
were our enemies. It is not her love, but her health 



A DIZZY SUMMIT 331 

which is ill-attuned. And so it will be best that you 
should not go within." 

Without a word Bethoc turned away. 

Was the doctor mistaken in fancying he could trace 
relief in the expression of her face? 



I 



CHAPTER XXXVI 

BETHOC GOING BEAVELY 

*f"f MUST leave Dunsinane, aye, and at once. I 
may not stay here when duty calls me hence." 
So Bethoc spoke to herself as she stood in the 
tiny apartment appointed for her use. 

But, though she clamored of duty, her conscience 
tore her this way and that, for she had heard the many 
whispers rife amongst Macbeth's adherents gathered 
at Dunsinane, and knew that their prophecies were 
gloomy as to the ultimate issue should Malcolm and 
his English allies really appear before Dunsinane. 

And if disaster, defeat, death, were before the inmates 
of this strong castle, she could not help remembering 
that it contained her mother and brother. 

But, alas! What comfort would she give the former, 
since the very sight of her brought on a paroxysm of 
those nervous terrors which left the queen faint and 
exhausted? What connection the crazed woman saw 
between the daughter and the terrible past was an enigma 
even to Bethoc; but thus it was, and she knew it would 
be impossible in any event to help console or cheer her 
unhappy mother. 

And away across the darkened landscape the man she 
loved but must renounce marched to the bringing of grim 
and righteous retribution. And did she not hold the 
key to the king's defiance? Could she not tell Malcolm 
of his danger? — or at least, recount the warning, if he 

(332) 



BETHOC GOING BRAVELY 333 

chose to call it so — of those weird prophetesses who had 
shown Macbeth that he was safe until Birnam wood 
removed to Dunsinane? 

Cradled in that atmosphere of superstitious belief 
common to the day, Bethoc herself attached much 
significance to those words. 

And if Macbeth sheltered behind so strange a promise 
ought she not to risk all in searching Malcolm out and 
telling him how vain was his strife? 

Risk all. Ah, yes, but was there not self-deceit in this? 
Would she not fain escape to friends, guessing her own 
peril? 

Well did Bethoc know the suspicion with which the 
king regarded her. Easily she guessed what desperate 
and blood-thirsty methods he might take to ensure 
himself against betrayal at her hands. 

But there was Lulach. Could she leave her brother? 

Nay, at least not without farewell! 

Undecided, irresolute, fearing her own motives, yet 
irresistibly drawn towards this daring venture which 
should afford the means of enabling her to help the man 
she loved, Bethoc commenced her search for her brother. 

Yet she searched vainly, and grew much perplexed 
as she questioned one after the other, hearing denials 
from all lips. The young prince — as he was called — 
had not been seen for some hours. At last, when Bethoc 
was on the point of braving the anger of the king him- 
self in telling of her brother's loss, she came upon Fenella, 
the youngest and prettiest of the queen's gentlewomen, 
half-hidden in an alcove, sobbing her heart out. 

It was some time before any coherent speech could be 
won from the poor girl, but at last, after patient question- 
ing, Bethoc learned a startling tale. It appeared that 



334 MACBETH 

many of Macbeth's adherents did not share their master's 
optimism with regard to the outcome of an approaching 
fray, and so, after due deliberation, had stolen off, carry- 
ing Lulach with them, having determined that, should 
Macbeth be vanquished and perish in the coming con- 
flict, they would proclaim young Lulach as king and 
strive to rally the tribes to his standard. 

" Three hours since," sobbed Fenella, "they rode 
hence secretly, not daring to tell his majesty, who vows 
that no human power can overthrow him. I pray the 
saints it may be so, and yet I fear. Alas! I would I 
were far from hence in safety. Yet I could not fly leav- 
ing Seyton here. Ah, lady, if you knew how my heart 
is riven. There will be a battle perchance, and many 
slain. I grow faint with dread, hearing already the 
horrid screams of dead and dying. Fair St. Fillan send 
my lover may be safe. I could not live without him." 

Bethoc looked pityingly at the pretty child, who found 
the stern realities of life so hard and terrible. Hereto- 
fore, little Fenella had troubled little about the sorrows 
of others; she was so happy, her lover was brave, gallant, 
devoted, she ever dreamed of a rose-lit future. 

Now? 

Bethoc sighed. She had too many cares of her own 
to give more than passing consideration to those of 
Fenella. And this news concerning Lulach filled her 
with amaze, whilst it forced the truth of a nearing crisis 
more vividly before her. 

Nearer, yet nearer drew Malcolm the avenger. Alas, 
she could no longer dream of him as Malcolm the lover. 

"Lulach gone," she breathed, "and with no word of 
farewell? No parting kiss? But whither have they 
taken him?" 



BETHOC GOING BRAVELY 335 

"To Strathbogie,"* replied Fenella, "and Lulach 
would have sought you, lady, if he had been permitted. 
He even wept when they told him he must come at once. 
Methinks he would fain have stayed to see the fighting, 
full sure indeed that the king must be victorious. " 

"Left he a message?" asked the sister wistfully; 
for though Lulach had always been a dornineering and 
wilful brother, she loved him tenderly. 

Fenella nodded. "He bade me tell you he should 
soon return when the king triumphed, and that he hoped 
all the fighting would not be over. He said he envied 
us both because we should see traitors hang whilst he 
vainly awaited a chance to fight them. Those with him 
laughed at his words, vowing Macbeth's own son could 
not have spoken more gallantly. But — I wept/' con- 
cluded little Fenella with a sob, "for indeed I am afraid 
of all this fighting and talk of killing. Why cannot there 
be peace in Scotland as there used to be when I was a 
child and good King Duncan ruled the land?" 

Bethoc shook her head. 

"Would to Heaven King Duncan still reigned," she 
whispered. "How fair the world would then seem, 
whilst now — now it is desolate." 

Fenella looked at the elder girl, her hazel eyes wet 
with tears. 

"You do not think we shall all be killed?" she 
questioned, timidly, "even if this terrible Malcolm 
comes against the castle." 

"Nay," replied Bethoc gently, "he is not terrible at 
all, but a most noble prince. Alas, sweet Fenella, the 
terror will come from within rather than from without." 



* Immediately after Macbeth's decease his adherents proclaimed 
Lulach king; but they were quickly overthrown, Lulach himself 
being killed at the battle of Essie, in Strathbogie. 



336 MACBETH 

The girl shuddered. 

"They say the queen is mad/' she whispered, "and 
the king scarcely less so, since he believes the report of 
witches before that of his own senses and wisdom. Thus 
said those who carried Lulach hence. Oh, this place is 
dreadful and I am afraid!" 

She rocked to and fro in a paroxysm of terror, nor 
was there great wonder, poor child, since attendance on 
the queen had unstrung her nerves, and the approaching 
danger was very real without being distorted by the 
busy tongues of cowards, who had prated in her hearing 
of coming doom. Bethoc longed to seat herself beside 
her and strive to bring comfort to the timid sufferer, 
but her own daring purpose was growing strong now. 
If she could quit Dunsinane now she would — since the 
ties which bound her here were severed. 

She had a message for Malcolm, even though she dared 
give him but scanty welcome. 

Stooping, she kissed Fenella on the lips. 

"Pray to God and have no fear," she advised. "None 
will harm you, child." 

The girl clung to her. 

"Nor Seyton?" she echoed. "Ah, if they kill him 
I would rather die too, for what is life without love?" 
£ What indeed? thought Bethoc fiercely as she looked 
back on the years which the beacon of her own love 
had lighted, then forward and saw the future, dark and 
lonely. 

Yet she reared her head bravely. 

"Life is but a gift," she replied, "to be rendered back 
one day to the giver. If love fails, Fenella, in this life, 
remember there is life beyond. So we must go bravely, 
even if we go lonely." 



BETHOC GOING BRAVELY 337 

But Feneila, having not yet learned her lesson, wept. 

Night had come, a moonlit night on which, no doubt, 
the fairies of moor and glen held revel. A night for 
lovers' dreams, glamour and delight. A night for sweet 
poesy of thought and pleasant wanderings. 

Yet Bethoc found it a night for none of these things, 
since the pall of tragedy wrapped itself about the high 
hill of Dunsinane. But it was in her heart to escape. 
The purpose was firm now; all that remained was to find 
a way. 

Not so difficult either, since Lulach, whose business it 
was to pry into every secret, had shown her the hidden 
stairway which led from one of the castle chambers 
to an outlet below the fosses. More than one of these 
stairs had been contrived in the thickness of the wall, 
and were meant to serve for swift and secret sortie 
upon any unsuspecting enemy. To Bethoc it occurred 
that one such would serve now to free her from what 
she might almost regard as a prison. 

Going very cautiously, her plaid drawn closely over 
her head and shoulders, she stole along the stone passages 
till she reached the heavy arras which hung before a 
door. Raising it, she slipped within, finding herself in a 
small room, sparsely furnished and hung with arras. 

Yonder in the left-hand corner she would find the 
stair. 

Quickly she hurried across the room, but not so quickly 
but that she heard the sound of voices and tread of heavy 
steps without. 

Others also were on the point of entering and there 
was no time to find the secret of the stairs or escape 
by that way. All she could do was to creep hastily 



338 MACBETH 

behind the arras and crouch low back against the wall, 
half suffocated in the confined space, as the door was 
opened and the king, followed by Seyton, entered the 
apartment. 



CHAPTER XXXVII 

THE SPY DISCOVERED 

THE king flung himself down into a chair, motion- 
ing his companion to a seat near. 
Here, alone with the one man he could safely 
trust, he yielded to one of those fits of utter depression 
which were wont to assail him, but which, as a rule, 
he hid from curious or unsympathetic eyes. 

Tonight, however, he was too weary to mask his 
face with frown or smile, but sat with one arm trailing 
against the carved back of the chair, his other hand 
shielding his eyes. 

"Seyton," he groaned, "I am sick at heart." 

The younger man did not reply; perhaps he would 
have liefer echoed the words, and only checked fearing 
to add to his master's depression. 

Macbeth let his hand fall, staring gloomily across 
at the other. The room was unlighted save by the 
moonlight, which fell in long white beams from the high 
windows. 

"Aye, Seyton," resumed the king, "the crisis is here. 
I shall be victor hereafter or dethroned. The conqueror 
or the conquered. After all, does it greatly matter 
which? I have lived long enough. My way of life is 
fallen into the sear, the yellow leaf, and that which 
should be mine, as honor, love, obedience, troops of 
friends, I must not look to have." 

There was something tragically pathetic in the admis- 
sion, which stirred a new cord of pity in Bethoc's breast. 

(339) 



340 MACBETH 

Here was another and a different Macbeth to the 
bloodthirsty tyrant she had learned to dread and shudder 
at. Involuntarily she thought of the kindly stepfather 
of long ago, who had taken her on his knee and been 
good to her in the days before deadly ambition destroyed 
his better nature. 

Now, through that moonlit room seemed to toll the 
knell most dread to human ears, "Too late! too late!" 
Aye, she heard it clearly — so did Seyton — so did the 
king himself, as he crouched there, a man gray-headed 
before his time, worn, bent, despairing, almost alone, 
loveless, deserted. 

Ah, bitterly though he had sinned, desperate though 
his crimes had been, the girl hidden behind the arras 
could mid it in her heart to pity the man whose own 
hand had brought this misery upon him. 

The goal reached! Ambition satisfied! Well might 
the weird sisters laugh as they gloated in their success, 
their victim's damnation. 

Seyton was still silent. Dogged as his devotion was, 
he had no answer for these self-accusations. 

"In place of love," resumed Macbeth, "curses — not 
loud, but deep. Mouth-honor, breath, which the 
poor heart would fain deny but dare not." 

Too true! Too true! Did not Seyton himself know 
of those escaping Thanes who, on pretext of carrying 
young Lulach hence, had placed themselves in safety 
from threatening peril? 

The young man sighed. He had no good tidings to 
give when they should be asked, fain though he was to 
bring cheer to this broken man, whose piteous despair 
touched him more deeply than any raging defiance 
of fate would have done. Macbeth sat silent for a time. 



THE SPY DISCOVERED 341 

He was terribly depressed; the firmly gathered reins of 
government seemed slipping from between nerveless 
fingers. He had lost heart for the moment and looked 
out from an abyss where hope was dead. 

Presently he roused himself. Wherefore should he 
fear? Had it not been foretold that no man born of 
woman should overcome him? 

"Seyton," he asked harshly, "what news more?" 

The officer looked at him askance. 

"All is confirmed, my lord, which was reported," 
he said reluctantly. 

Macbeth cursed with grim fervor. 

"I'll fight," he vowed, "till my flesh be hacked from 
my bones. Come! give me my armor." 

The other hesitated. Upon the stone floor the moon- 
light lay chill. 

"It is not needed yet," he hinted. 

"I'll put it on," retorted the king fiercely. "Send out 
more horses, scour the country round. Hang those that 
talk of fear." 

He sprang to his feet, a sudden thought striking him. 
Had he not concealed more than one secret stair leading 
beyond the fosses? He would see that these were clear 
and — 

He had torn aside the arras, pausing now with the 
heavy tapestry in his left hand, his right upon his sword. 

White as the moonlight that fell upon her pale face 
stood Bethoc, leaning back against the wall, her blue 
eyes raised to his with the look of one who expects little 
less than instant death. 

With a savage cry Macbeth caught his stepdaughter 
by the arm, dragging her into the room. The heavy 
arras fell back with a dull swish into its place. 



342 MACBETH 

"A spy/' whispered the king beneath his breath. 
"A spy!" 

His eyes were terrible, so that even Seyton shuddered. 

Bethoc stood dumb; it seemed that she was beyond 
fear, beyond hope, knowing death was near. Aye! 
death was near — so near that the king, drawing his dirk, 
would have struck her down in the frenzy of his rage 
had it not been for Seyton, who sprang forward and, 
regardless of consequences, caught the upraised wrist. 
"Your majesty!" he gasped. 

Macbeth turned upon him savagely. 

"A spy!" he reiterated. "A crawling, creeping 
traitress, too long nourished to my bosom. Out on you 
then! She shall die. Death be her portion. What, 
man! Has she not betrayed us before? But for her 
the Thane of Fife would have died instead of his wife. 
More ghosts? Nay, I do not fear ghosts. I fear naught, 
since none shall overcome me. But spies die. She shall 
die." 

He was delirious in his rage, the froth white upon his 
beard. 

Bethoc closed her eyes, praying inarticulately. But 
Seyton was desperate. 

"Nay, my liege," said he, "if you commit this crime, 
your friends, adherents, those who shall help you smite 
down and conquer all your foes, would desert you. It 
must not be. In destroying this lady you destroy your- 
self." 

"Rather I save myself," growled Macbeth — but he 
had lowered his weapon and relaxed his hold on Bethoc's 
arm. 

"She is a traitress," he reiterated. "Was she not 
listening to our most secret counsels? Her foot upon 



THE SPY DISCOVERED 343 

the stair which should lead her to our foes? Death 
hath she deserved. Death shall be her portion." 

"But not now," urged Seyton, intent on his object of 
salvation, "the crisis is too imminent. Your adherents 
must be thought of, their whims considered. The lady, 
if she be a traitress, shall not escape her fate, but she must 
not die here and now. The risk to your cause would be 
too great. There is more than one safe prison in Dun- 
sinane, my good liege. Let me myself take her thither, 
bolt and bar her in, so that later her fate shall be decided 
when conquest crowns your arms and peace the country." 

"Conquest and peace," muttered Macbeth. "Aye, 
aye, I am the victor. Take her away, Seyton, lock her 
safely in the deepest dungeon, draw bolt and bar to keep 
here there. She shall not escape my vengeance any more 
than others, less my kin." 

Seyton did not need to be commanded twice. Taking 
Bethoc by the arm he hurried her from the room and 
down many passages till they came to a long, narrow 
flight of steps leading to a part of the castle unknown to 
the girl. She was still numb, in the horror which showed 
her death's face. That she had escaped it by a friend's 
intervention she scarcely yet understood. But at length, 
after what seemed ^terminable wanderings, Seyton 
halted before a door, raising the lantern he had taken 
from the sentry at the head of the passage. 

"This underground chamber," he said in low tones 
to his prisoner, "is no dungeon, but by a second entrance 
leads out below the fosses, almost at the foot of the hill. 
See, we will come within together and I will discover 
to you the secret. Wait here in this chamber till within 
an hour of dawn. Then you shall seek the passage and 
freedom beyond." . 



344 MACBETH 

Bethoc drew a deep breath. 

Was this the truth to which she listened with such 
bewildered senses? 

"You understand?" continued Seyton, since his 
companion had not replied. "The king is not himself. 
In his present frenzied mood, wrought in him by the 
deeds of those who oppose themselves to his authority, 
he may commit acts for which hereafter he would be in 
bitter grief and vain remorse. In saving you, lady, I save 
my master from himself. See, here is the iron ring 
which, when twisted thus, discloses a secret door; pass 
on without fear till you shall find a second outlet, barred 
from within. Loose the bolts and you are free." 

Bethoc's lips moved at last, though with what words 
she thanked and blessed him she did not know. It was 
all a dream — from which she would awaken presently. 

But perhaps her deliverer understood the gratitude 
which she could not voice, for he raised her little hand 
to his lips. 

"For sake of one I love, all women are sacred in my 
eyes," he said softly, and thought of hazel-eyed Fenella, 
whom he would so gladly have carried far from Dun- 
sinane, had not duty held him to his master's side. 

"Heaven bless thee, sir," faltered Bethoc. "I . . * 
I think but for you the king would have killed me just 
now." 

She shuddered violently as, in the moment of realiza- 
tion, reaction set in. 

But Seyton could not linger, deeply as he pitied this 
poor girl, whose danger was still great enough, since in 
leaving the shelter of the castle he knew she launched 
herself amongst many unknown perils. 

Yet there was no alternative. At any moment the 



THE SPY DISCOVERED 345 

king's fury might be impossible to stay, and what 
amounted to the murder of his stepdaughter would 
certainly alienate many remaining adherents. 

Left alone, however, in her dark prison, Bethoc gradu- 
ally recovered her wonted calm. She was fearless by 
nature and the emergency found her ready. Wisely she 
strove not to dwell on the past tragic hours, but devote 
her thoughts to the immediate future. The future to 
which, in two or three hours at most, she would be 
passing. 

Behind her loomed the gigantic figure of some haunt- 
ing doom, which looked upon her with the queen's wild 
eyes and cried to her in the king's threatening voice. 
From this she tied. Had not Seyton himself shown her 
the way? But to whom . . . to what . . . did 
she go? 

With a gesture of final renunciation she drew from her 
finger the bronze ring, with its exquisitely worked spiral 
formed by a double serpent, which, years ago, a happy 
lover had placed there, and laid it down in a corner of 
her prison.* 

No longer had she any right to wear that pledge of a 
love she was banned from accepting even if again it 
, were offered her. 

The parting with that ring, her most treasured posses- 
sion during long years of waiting, seemed to Bethoc the 
final act which severed her life from that of Malcolm 
Canmore. 

Bitter indeed that moment, only distantly touched 

* Excavations made on the site of this castle in 1857 led to the 
discovery of an underground chamber, and of an exquisitely worked 
bronze finger ring in the form of a spiral serpent. — Ordnance Gazetteer 
of Scotland, 



346 MACBETH 

by the eternal glory of self-sacrifice. The past, with 
its hopes, its fears, its passionate desire, was buried here 
in this secret chamber which lay within the hill of Dun- 
sinane. 

But the sacrifice, the renunciation, were not yet com- 
plete. She must still play her part in devotion to the 
lover to whom her heart had already bidden farewell. 
She must find him and warn him by what secret promises 
Macbeth was assured of victory over his enemies. 

With resolute fingers she groped and found the iron 
ring which Seyton had shown her, pulling it back towards 
her till she felt a yielding that told her some opening 
yawned in the darkness. 

Without fear she glided into the low and narrow 
passage. 

It was easy to set forth upon this perilous journey, 
compared with the suspense and horror of the waiting 
time. 



CHAPTER XXXVIII 



IN BIRNAM WOOD 



BEFORE .expectant eyes lay the wide woods, fair 
indeed in their fresh greenery and springtide. 
Dawn had come, dawn which showed Malcolm 
Canmore his goal — the Thane of Fife, the stronghold 
of his enemy. 

In a long line, stretching back over the plain, marched 
the English host, swelled by many a powerful Scottish 
chieftain who led his tribesmen against a hated tyrant. 

Menteith was there, Caithness, Angus and Lennox, 
whilst shaggy Rosse rode close to Macduff's side. Mac- 
duff the avenger, whose wrath and heart of vengeance 
were as hot within him as on the day when he first 
learned of the sacking of his castle, the murder of wife 
and babes. 

White-bearded Si ward, one of the finest generals known 
in that warlike age, rode beside Malcolm, his keen sol- 
dier's eye making note of every point in the landscape, 
which to all seemed bounded by the distant hill of Dun- 
sinane. Beside Northumbria's earl rode his son, a fair- 
locked lad, ruddy and joyous, big-limbed and mighty 
for battle, which he thirsted for, since this was to be his 
first campaign. Malcolm Canmore, bronzed and hard- 
ened by the long march northwards, pointed towards 
Dunsinane, and his gray eyes flashed. 

" Cousins," quoth he, turning to the attendant Thanes, 
"I hope the days are near at hand when chambers will 
be safe." 

(347) 



348 MACBETH 

Menteith smiled. Like the rest of the Scotchmen 
who were in revolt against Macbeth, he had learned to 
like if not to love this quiet man, whose strength was in 
self-repression. 

"We doubt it not," he replied. 

"What wood is this before us?" asked Earl Siward. 
"Methinks it were well to break our fast within its 
shade, ere we set out for Dunsinane." 

"The wood of Birnam," answered Malcolm, and 
shaded his eyes with his hand as he spoke. 

Was it a woman's form that stood on the outskirts of 
the forest, her blue-clad figure framed by the soft green 
of clustering trees? A woman whose sheltering plaid 
had fallen back from her dark locks, leaving her shapely 
head bare. 

The prince caught back his breath in a gasp of sur- 
prise. Strange, indeed, did it seem to see any woman 
standing thus alone, facing an oncoming army. Stranger 
still, since even the distance showed her to be young 
and passing fair. 

Memory stirred the exile's pulses. For an instant 
his thoughts flashed back to another springtide and a 
maid awaiting her lover on a river bank, with gold and 
purple flowers about her feet. 

Macduff had ridden forward and reached his leader's 
side. He, too, had seen that waiting figure and thought 
to see a woman, importunate in her welcome of a lover. 
Yet to Macduff this one woman's importunity was per- 
missible. 

"It is Bethoc — the queen's daughter," he murmured 
in Malcolm's ear. "She who saved me from Macbeth's 
murderous hands and sped me to England with my 
message from your waiting subjects." 



IN BIRNAM WOOD 349 

Malcolm's eyes flashed. Without answering the 
speaker he spurred forward, springing lightly to the 
ground before the woman, who had waited for his 
coming with such sternly repressed emotion. 

Not herself — not herself — but of him she must think. 
This task must be performed, this message given, ere 
she went out of his life altogether. 

So when Malcolm took her hand, and would have 
drawn her back towards the shelter of the trees, so that 
he might give her a welcome more suited to lovers long 
absent, she held her ground. 

This was Duncan's son, come to play the avenger 
on % those who had wronged him. Those . . . 
who . . . had wronged him! And one her mother. 

A swift stab of pain drove its way deep into Bethoc's 
heart as she looked at the man who would have made 
so noble a lover, the man who had won her heart and 
proved himself worthy of keeping that priceless gift. 
But no! The barrier rose between them. 

And he, being a man, looked down with perhaps the 
faintest shadow of disappointment to find that grief and 
pain, vain waiting and regret, had touched and marred 
the perfect loveliness of the child-face he had been recall- 
ing more often of late. Still — her blue eyes were those 
of a woman now, beautiful in their steadfastness, though 
shadowed by a sorrow she could not wholly hide. 

"Bethoc," he whispered, and, in taking the hand 
from which his ring had been plucked but a few hours 
since, realized that love was destined to play a lesser 
part in his life than the sterner issues of destiny. 

He thought of his just cause against a tyrant, his 
country's need and call, even whilst he took that little 
hand and gazed deep into blue eyes. And she? Why! 
had she not been praying to fulfil her part? 



350 MACBETH 

So she smiled as she stood there in full sight of the 
Thanes and English officers who approached. This was 
to be no love tryst, no importunate welcome of the man 
whose devotion she had a right to claim for service 
rendered. 

"Aye," she replied, "I am Bethoc, my liege. Come 
to welcome you to your own. Nay, is that so? You 
shall answer me presently, since I come for another 
purpose, which you and these good friends of yours 
shall hear. Macbeth keeps still at his strong castle of 
Dunsinane, and though the service of his friends sits 
lightly upon them, and they shall fight more in fear 
than love of their lord's cause, yet the king is confident 
of success against your arms." 

They were not alone now. 

Earl Siward, the Thane of Fife, Rosse and Menteith 
were gathered near, since Bethoc spoke clearly, glancing 
at them all before her gaze returned to Malcolm. 

"Strange confidence," muttered Earl Siward, "if 
all reports be true of how his kingdom falls from him." 

"Yet, my lords," replied Bethoc, her tones faltering 
a little, "he hath cause and reason which he vaunts to 
justify his faith in victory, for you must know how many 
times he hath consulted certain witches, who, at the 
price of their immortal souls, have learned many spells 
by which they read the future. In this way, as I have 
heard it said by no less than Banquo himself, these hell- 
hags hailed him as Thane of Cawdor and King of Scot- 
land before ambition's voice prompted him to ill-deeds by 
which to fulfil his destiny. These same women since 
have told him that till Birnam wood remove to Dunsi- 
nane no arms brought against him shall prosper. For 
this cause he laughs even when he hears Earl Siward's 
mighty host marches to Dunsinane." 



IN BIRNAM WOOD 351 

The little group of men remained silent about the 
speaker. Each glanced at his fellow, pondering the 
weird prophecy, for none was there who could boast 
himself untainted by superstition. Then suddenly 
Malcolm Canmore laughed, the loud, triumphant 
laughter of youth, which sees a way across an obstacle 
looming before his path. 

"Nay," said he, "we will ourselves fulfil the prophecy, 
damn Macbeth's fase security to lowest hell and win our 
easy victory. Come, let every soldier hew him down a 
bough and bear it before him. Thereby we gain two 
ends. We shall both shadow the numbers of our host, 
thus making the king's spies err in report of us, and at 
the same time show Macbeth's jaundiced sight great 
Birnam wood — coming to Dunsinane." 

Clouded brows cleared as if by magic. All were in 
accord with this suggestion, and soon a busy scene was 
being enacted in those quiet woods, where nesting birds 
flew in affright to see their strongholds, sheltering dainty 
homes, fall crashing to the ground beneath fierce blows. 
Thus at last the task set by Prince Malcolm was com- 
pleted, and weary workers sat to rest a space, eating 
their morning meal with the appetite brought by toil 
and the fresh, keen air, whilst very confident became the 
talk of all as they spoke of the dismay their strange 
mode of march would strike in their enemy's breast. 

But Malcolm walked apart with sad-eyed Bethoc. 

"Tell me," said he, "by what words I can thank thee 
for thy courage in thus coming? In the telling of this 
tale I see the seeds of instant victory." 

Bethoc did not look towards the speaker. Alas! 
had not her heart burden enough to carry without 
stabbing it afresh with crowding memories? 



352 MACBETH 

"If you would thank me," she whispered, "you would 
say no word — but leave me here — and now." 

The prince smiled. 

"Why, so I must," he answered, with only half regret, 
"since the drums sound and bugles call. But you, 
sweet lady, I cannot leave you here alone and unpro- 
tected." 

She pointed to where, between the trees, they could 
catch a glimpse of the gray walls of a little chapel. 

"Yonder," she replied, "I shall find both sanctuary 
and a friend. An hour ago, as I wandered through these 
woods, I came upon yon chapel wherein knelt a holy 
priest who prayed for Scotland. I go to join my prayers 
to his. In Heaven's keeping I shall be safe, and, as I 
hope, bring safety to those — I pray for." 

Almost she had added, "those I love," and the color 
burned in her wan cheeks as she thought how near had 
been her self-betrayal. 

She need not have feared, ~poor maid, since her com- 
panion listened more attentively to the roll of drums than 
to her. 

Yet he lingered till he saw her reach the side of the 
man who stood upon the threshold of the chapel. An 
old man, wearing the tonsure of a priest, whose pale, 
ascetic features bore the impress of Heaven rather than 
earth. But as Bethoc approached, he smiled, raising 
his hands in blessing, which both knelt to receive, whilst 
they prayed — the man for Scotland, the woman for 
the man. 



CHAPTER XXXIX 

APPROACHING DOOM 

WHAT did the dawn show King Macbeth? 
Anxious faces, pale cheeks, followers who 
muttered with faint hearts, telling that naught 
but doom and disaster lay before them. 

They did not love the king who claimed their service, 
but fear kept them at his side. Fear engendered by 
his own apparently causeless confidence in victory. 
If they deserted him and Macbeth was conqueror in the 
coming conflict, they trembled to think what their fate 
might be. So they remained — weak-kneed fighters in 
a failing cause. 

But what else did the new dawn show the king as 
he stood with folded arms and frowning brow upon his 
ramparts? Was it possible those white clinging mists 
were taking form and shape? Twisting, writhing mist- 
wraiths, which floated towards him, eddying and whirl- 
ing in the morning breeze. What phantoms of his 
brain were these? Mist-wraiths? Was that all? Or 
were those Ilda's fair tresses streaming in the wind? 
Were those eyes? Mocking, wicked, yet beautiful eyes 
which met his in a gloating triumph from out of noth- 
ingness. Could it possibly be gray Graith's shrunken 
features which met his gaze, twisting and mouthing in 
hideous contortions, whilst Maurne herself blinked at 
him with red-rimmed eyes and croaked a bitter gibe 
telling him he had been fooled? With a groan Macbeth 
23 (353) 

7\ 



354 MACBETH 

turned away, slowly descending the tower steps into 
the castle. A distant wail as of women weeping in some 
apartment near startled him, and he paused, waiting 
till he caught the sound of hurrying feet and went for- 
ward to meet Seyton, whose blanched cheeks and ner- 
vous manner told of ill news. 

"What is it?" asked the king; but he spoke listlessly, 
as one who has drained a bitter cup to its last dregs and 
can be moved no further by the tide of grief. 

"The queen is dead," muttered Seyton. He dared 
say no more, nor attempt to detail the tragedy of that 
swift action by which a crazed woman, maddened by the 
phantoms of her brain, had taken her own life. 

Nor did the king inquire. This news was on a piece 
with all the rest. The knell of doom was in his ears, 
fierce passion such as might bid him fight against out- 
numbering foes was not awake in him as yet to urge to 
desperate deeds. 

The queen was dead. Why did he feel no grief at such 
dire news? ' He had loved her well. Aye! loved her 
so well that he had allowed her to damn his soul. 

Well, well, well, he could not blame her now that she 
had joined the throng of pale ghosts haunting every 
room and passage in this his castle which he had builded 
to be free of them. 

Ghosts? Had those been ghosts or devils who had 
mocked him but now beyond the castle walls? So he 
passed on, followed by Seyton, whose cheeks had failed 
to recover their natural hue, though he listened atten- 
tively to the king's commands. Today was to see fierce 
strife at Dunsinane, he knew, since there was no longer 
room for doubt that Malcolm and his allies were rapidly 
nearing the castle. 



APPROACHING DOOM 355 

"Hang out our banners on the outer walls," cried 
the king, mocking in his harsh defiance of onrushing 
fate. "The cry is still, 'They come? Yet our castle's 
strength will laugh a siege to scorn. Here let them lie 
till famine and the ague eat them up. Were there not 
traitor Thanes within their ranks I would rather have 
met them in open combat and driven these English 
fools back to their own land. What! — another mes- 
senger? " 

A young soldier, pale and trembling, stood before them. 
His knees knocked together as he saw the fierce regard 
the king bent upon him. 

"Come, use thy tongue, " Macbeth commanded, 
snarling at him. "Thy story, quickly!" 

The youth raised both hands with the helpless gesture 
of one whose fears have sent his wits astray. 

"Gracious, my lord," he stammered, "I shall report 
that which I say I saw, but know not how to do it." 

Seyton laid a reassuring hand on the poor fellow's 
shoulder. "Speak thus," he answered. "State simply 
all you saw; it will suffice." 

The messenger gulped as though hoping to swallow 
his terrors. 

"As I did stand my watch upon the hill," he quavered, 
"I looked towards Birnam, and anon, methought, the 
wood began to move." 

The words produced instant effect. The king's apathy 
had gone, his face became gray, his lips twitched; in 
an outburst of unreasoning fury he struck the speaker 
across the mouth. 

"Liar and slave!" he roared. 

But the soldier grew more assured, now he had begun 
his tale. 



356 MACBETH 

"Sire," said he, "let me endure your wrath if it be 
not so; within this three mile may you see it coming. 
I say, a moving grove." 

Macbeth was shaking as though in an ague. 

"If thou speakest false," he replied huskily, "thou 
shalt hang alive upon the next tree till famine claim thee. 
If thy speech be sooth" — he turned away with a groan — 
"I care not if thou dost as much for me." 

The soldier hurried away, glad to escape from such 
uncomprehended wrath and return to his post. Macbeth 
drew Seyton to an inner room. He still trembled, but 
the light in his eyes was that of a wild boar at bay. 
Savagely he cursed, then gasped as though exhausted 
by the blasphemies at which his follower stood appalled. 

"Seyton," said the king at length, "I am undone by 
some equivocating fiend who hath sought to bring me 
to perdition by lies which sounded like to truth. Hark! 
Their laughter is in the air. Yet I cannot touch them. 
Oh, cursed be the day they first showed me the road to 
hell! What did they say? Come — your ear — bend 
lower. They did bid me l Fear not, till Bimam wood do 
come to Dunsinane* And now a wood comes towards 
Dunsinane." 

His eyes — haunted by unnamable things — held Sey- 
ton's. Then suddenly his mood changed. Once more 
he was the wild boar at bay. The tyrant who would die 
fighting with his face to the foe. He had never showed 
himself a coward in battle — and the old spirit of former 
years returned to him in his despair. 

"Arm! Arm! And out!" he cried aloud. "We will 
not await a siege. If that last messenger spoke truly, 
what use to wait, what need to fly? Sound the bugle. 
Summon all the garrison of fighting men. Death we 



APPROACHING DOOM 357 

may have to face, since it comes to this. Yet at last 
we'll die with harness on our back." 

Seyton's face brightened. This was good news indeed, 
for, whatever were the issues of that fight, he knew enough 
of the enemy with whom they dealt to be assured that 
Fenella at least was safe. Had it been otherwise — had 
Macbeth decided to allow the inmates of the castle to 
endure the horrors of a siege — he would have despaired 
indeed, since he knew enough of his master's stubborn 
nature to be assured that he would have held out in spite 
of all the tortures of famine. 

But this was not to be. Heaven was merciful. A 
few hours would decide the fortunes of the day, and 
since death always seems far from the young, even to the 
soldier fighting his desperate battle, Seyton looked for- 
ward to aiuture in which he might yet win sweet Fenella 
for his wife. Thus, with light step and eager heart, 
the young man hurried to the walls from whence a full 
view of the enemy could be obtained. Earl Siward, 
who himself prepared to lead the first battle, was busily 
disposing his troops about the plain. From where he 
stood Seyton could easily distinguish his own country- 
men from their English allies by their dress, and he could 
not forbear a heavy sigh. Loyal as he had remained to 
his master, he could not but deplore this fight against 
fellow-countrymen, and as he looked he vowed to raise 
his sword against none but the English adversaries 
in the coming battle. 

"And the end?" he muttered, "the end? Why, 
surely there can be but one. Yet Macbeth is my liege, 
and in this his last fight I'll not forsake him." 

It was the resolution of a brave man, since none knew 
better than Seyton that he fought in a cause already lost. 

Yet if he sighed it was for Fenella — not himself. 



CHAPTER XL 

IN THICK OF BATTLE 

EVENING had come. Evening to what a day! No 
wonder that in the castle itself weak women sought 
strength in prayer, and none were found who 
dared climb deserted ramparts to watch how the battle 
ended. Earlier by many hours the garrison had crept 
forth by secret ways to fall upon an enemy they hoped 
to catch unprepared. But they had found the English 
earPs men ready at every point to receive them, and the 
battle had rolled away over the plain, which echoed and 
resounded with the tumult of fighting men. 

No wonder that women prayed whilst death stood near, 
taking toll of many victims in the strife. But one had 
as yet escaped the dread claimant. Macbeth had seemed 
to wear a charmed life. Through the thick of the combat 
he had emerged untouched, to find himself towards eve- 
ning on the borders of a blue loch, in whose clear waters 
were mirrored the graceful forms of trees which clustered 
upon the banks. 

Kneeling by the water Macbeth bathed his head and 
face, quaffing greedily the refreshing drink, which seemed 
to bring new life and strength. 

What though his kernes and gallowglasses fled before 
victorious foes and their English allies? He himself, 
he, the king, was safe. Had not those weird sisters, 
traitresses though they were, told him that no man born 
of woman should overcome him? 

(358) 



IN THICK OF BATTLE 359 

Even though one seeming miracle had been performed, 
and Birnam wood had come to Dunsinane, he could still 
stand defiant against those who would have his life, 
since what man had ever yet come unmothered into this 
world? 

So the king stood alone, defeated, yet fiercely defiant. 
His star would yet rise upon a victorious field. His 
destiny was sure. Poor fool! even though the echo of 
devils' laughter reached him where he stood, bringing 
the sweat out upon his brow, he yet told himself that he 
was not overcome, that still he would be hailed as King 
of Scotland, still take vengeance for an hour's despair. 

A man came crashing through the undergrowth and 
stumbled out upon the path not far from the bank. 

A man, young and blue-eyed, with giant limbs and a 
frank, boyish face, battle-stained, but flushed with the 
pride of one who has borne himself gallantly on a first 
field. 

It was the younger Siward, who stood with drawn and 
reddened sword, looking curiously at the man whose dark 
locks hung matted upon his shoulders, his head still 
dripping with water, his eyes at once despairing and 
threatening. 

"What is your name?" asked the boy, wondering if 
this were an enemy, yet making less doubt as Macbeth 
crouched, his weapon at rest, ready for a swift leap and 
thrust. 

The king mocked, still confident. 

"Thou'lt be afraid to hear it," said he. 

The youth smiled. After so much victory his pride 
swelled to high vaunting. 

"No," he retorted, swinging his weapon with a gay 
laugh at prospect of more killing, "though thou callest 
thyself a hotter name than any in hell." 



360 MACBETH 

"My name is Macbeth," quoth the other shortly, and 
marked how the ruddiness died from young Siward's 
cheeks, whilst a slow horror and loathing crept into his 
eyes. 

"The devil himself," replied the boy, "could not 
pronounce a title more hateful to my ears." 

Macbeth fell to gibing. "No, not more fearful," he 
taunted. 

The other's blue orbs blazed. He had never known 
fear — only abhorrence. 

"Thou liest, tyrant!" he roared; "with my sword I'll 
prove the He thou speakest!" 

And he rushed like a young lion in his strength upon 
the gray-haired man before him. 

But the fight was silent which was fought there at 
eventide by the blue loch, where swaying figures struck 
and leapt, thrust and defended in fierce struggle, whilst 
around them lay God's world, beauteous in its springtide 
glory, green foliage overhead, carpeting of bluebells 
beneath. 

Oh! the world was fair and life was sweet — so young 
Siward would have told you, since the hot blood of youth 
was in his veins and his manhood unsullied by sins that 
might have seared and damned his white soul. Yet it 
was he whom death took by the hand that hour, passing 
by the other who knew life as a tragic and terrible thing, 
who saw a fair world blackened and mournful by reason 
of his own vileness. 

Dead lay young Siward amongst the flowers, his fair 
locks straying over a mossy root, his blue eyes wide yet 
fearless even now when he had looked on the dread vision 
of one he had deemed should have tarried from his side 
for many years. There was blood on the lad's breast — 



IN THICK OF BATTLE 361 

his shield was still clenched in the hand flung out across 
the moss and flowerets. Dead! How his mother would 
weep when she heard the news. How another's heart 
would break for the gallant boy lover. 

And he who had none to weep him had he died instead 
stood leaning against a tree gazing in gloomy triumph 
down at that fair young corpse. 

"Thou wast born of woman," muttered Macbeth. 
"But swords I smile at, laugh to scorn all weapons 
brandished by man that's born of woman." 

A raven croaked near. Was it in warning that even 
now Nemesis approached? 

All through the day's conflict the Thane of Fife had 
searched for his enemy in vain but tireless quest. He 
could not strike down the wretched kernes who fought as 
hirelings fight, merely in duty bound to the man who had 
bought their service with silver— not love. 

So, amidst scenes of bloodshed strode Macduff, with 
sword-edge unblunted and unstained, vowed to kill 
none saving the one — his bitter enemy. Yet still he 
searched in vain. 

Not once had he caught a glimpse of the tyrant who 
. had so cruelly wronged him, and a great fear crept into 
the seeker's heart that Macbeth had fallen and lay under 
the heaps of slain — thus only beyond his vengeance. 

And if so, surely the wan ghosts of wife and children 
would still haunt the man who ever heard their voices 
calling, calling through the night on husband and father 
to avenge them. 

Where was Macbeth? 

Evening had come — the question remained unanswered. 

The battle was over at last. The remnant of Macbeth's 
followers, deeming their lord dead, had made haste to 



362 MACBETH 

yield the impregnable fortalice of Dunsinan^ to the 
conquerors. Already Siward, with Prince Malcolm 
beside him, was proceeding thither, glad to stay the battle 
in which again and again they had found their foes turn 
to fight beside them. 

No longer fearing the dread vengeance of a tyrant, 
Macbeth's people were only too ready to hail the new 
king by that title. It was rather the entry of a welcomed 
master to Dunsinane than the arrival of a victorious 
enemy. 

Yet whilst already the shouts which proclaimed 
Malcolm as Scotland's lord cleft the distant air, the 
Thane of Fife still sought in growing frenzy for his one 
and only foe. 

And at last, when he had well-nigh yielded the quest 
in despair, he saw him come from a sheltering thicket 
about a loch, and pause irresolute as a man who does 
not know his way. 

Swift as a panther leapt Macduff and stood in the 
other's path, his sword drawn, his rugged face hewn as it 
were in rock, so firm was its stern purpose, whilst in his 
eyes gleamed that which should have made the most 
reckless foe to fear. 

"Turn, hell-hound, turn," he cried, and his tones 
rang deep and hollow as the voice of fate. 

Macbeth shrank back. Some might have pitied him, 
so wild were his eyes, so gaunt and despairing his fea- 
tures, whilst his graying locks hung damp and matted 
about his brow, straggling over his shoulders. Here was 
a man who had stood upon the heights of unsatisfying 
ambition and heard the fiends mocking him for having 
found so drear and cursed a goal. 

Here was the man who had taken fate by the throat 



IN THICK OF BATTLE 363 

striving to force her to his will or die. Here was the 
man who now stood alone, loveless, forsaken, uncrowned, 
his soul damned in seeking that which had turned to 
dust and ashes before him. 

He gazed at the foe who had no shred of pity in his 
heart — and shuddered. 

"Of all men else, Thane, I avoided thee," he replied. 
"But get thee back. My soul is too much charged 
with blood of thine already." 

Macduff's brow grew yet blacker. 

"I have no words," he muttered hoarsely. "My 
voice is in my sword. Thou bloodier villain than terms 
can give thee out." 

He sprang to the attack as he spoke, and the blades 
crossed. Young Siward's blood was still wet upon that 
of Macbeth — the other's was white and unsullied — a 
silver streak which only reddened when it caught the 
flare of the setting sun. 

The sword of the avenger! Yet not so thought Mac- 
beth, who spoke as he caught a deadly thrust upon his 
shield. 

"Thou losest labor," said he, "thou mightest hope 
as easily to smite the air as make me bleed. Keep thy 
blade for vulnerable foes. I bear a charmed life, which 
must not yield to one born of woman." 

A brief silence, then, solemn as a tolling bell came the 
reply, which echoed like a knell in the vanquished king's 
ears. 

"Despair thy charm," replied Macduff, "and let the 
angel whom thou still hast served tell thee Macduff was 
from his mother's womb untimely ripped." 

Beads of sweat broke upon Macbeth's brow. Fate 
had spoken. In that moment he knew death stood near 



364 MACBETH 

him. Knew in bitter anguish of spirit that he had been 
tricked, cheated and betrayed by the vile creatures, 
who had robbed him of honor, manhood, love and now 
life itself. 

"Accursed be the tongue that tells me so," he panted. 
"And damned be the juggling fiends that weave their 
subtle trickery about our ears with double sense of 
speech, keeping the letter of their promise and breaking 
its spirit to our own undoing. Come — I'll not fight with 
thee." 

But Macduff, still remorseless, pressed him with his 
blade, taunting him so that the other could have no 
choice but continue the conflict. 

"Then yield thee, coward," cried the Thane, "and live 
to be the show of the time. We'll have thee, as our rarer 
monsters are, painted upon a pole and underwrit, 'Here 
you may see the tyrant? " 

Macbeth flinched, his pride leaping to a last flare. 

"I'll not yield to lick the ground before young Mal- 
colm's feet," he panted, "nor be baited with the rabble's 
curse. Though Birnam wood be come to Dunsinane, 
and thou my foe being of no woman born, yet I'll fight 
to the last. Lay on, Macduff, and damned be he that 
first cries, 'Hold, enough.' " 

So they fought, silently now, wary, desperate, venge- 
ful, watchful. Crouching like wild beasts about to 
spring, leaping as though to overtop an enemy's guarding 
shield. And as they fought, the sun went down amidst 
clouds of golden glory — and gray mists crept upwards 
over the death-haunted moors. 




"Lay on, Macduff.' 



CHAPTER XLI 

MALCOLM CANMORE 

THE battle was over. Brave men lay dead out 
there upon the plain and on the hill slope. Within 
the castle of Dunsinane women wept for those who 
would return no more, though little Fenella thanked 
listening saints, since Seyton, though wounded, still 
lived, aye, and might well live to be Malcolm's trusted 
soldier and Fenella's loving husband. 

But Malcolm turned with a shadow on his handsome 
face to greet Earl Siward. 

"Macduff is missing/' said he anxiously, "and your 
noble son." 

Rosse, who had entered behind the earl, stepped 
forward. 

"Alas," he replied, "your son, Earl Siward, has paid 
a soldier's debt. He only lived till he was a man, con- 
firmed his prowess by noble deeds of war, and like a man 
he died." 

The old general hid his eyes for a moment with his 
hand. 

"Then he is dead?" he questioned, and in his heart 
knew there would be for him a desolate home-coming, 
since many hopes were bound and centered in that bright- 
haired lad. Yet stoicism was the virtue of the age. 
As Rosse bowed his head in sad affirmative he put another 
question. 

"Had he his hurts before?" he asked, a quiver of 
anxiety in his firm voice. 

(365) 



366 MACBETH 

"Aye," returned Rosse, "on the front — every one." 

"Why, then," said Siward, more quietly, "God's 
soldier be he! Had I as many sons as I have hairs I 
would not wish them to a fairer death. And so his knell 
is tolled." 

"Alack," sighed Malcolm, who had had a brother's 
fondness for the lad, "he's worth more sorrow, sir. And 
that I'll spend on him." 

The old earl smiled wistfully, yet bravely spoke. 

"He's worth no more," he replied; "they say .... 
he parted well — and paid his score. So, God be with him. 
Why — who comes here?" 

All turned. Upon the threshold stood the Thane of 
Fife, stern, rugged, inexorable as fate. Yet triumphant 
too, for by its hair he held the head of Macbeth the tyrant, 
hacked within that hour from his dead body. 

Aye! — he was dead — dying as 'twas said with mocking, 
fiendish laughter ringing in his ears, for the last sound 
they should hear on earth. Macduff, heedless of crowd- 
ing Thanes, saw only Malcolm, standing before them all, 
and at quick strides reached his side, kneeling before him, 
whilst, laying his blood-stained trophy on the ground, 
he raised his right hand aloft. 

' l Hail, king !" he proclaimed, " for so thou art. Behold 
the usurper's head. The time is free! I see thee com- 
passed with thy kingdom's pearl, hailing thee in their 
hearts by the same salutation which first passed my lips. 
So here I voice their glad acclaim, 'Hail, King of Scot- 
land!' " 

The enthusiasm of the words inspired and stirred the 
stern breasts of all who thronged the great hall; from 
hundreds of welcoming throats the cry rang out: 

"Hail, King of Scotland!" 




"Behold, the usurper's head.' 



MALCOLM CANMORE 367 

Here in the stronghold his cruel foe had built in hopes 
of false security, the shout which welcomed Duncan's 
son to his father's throne echoed and re-echoed. Strong 
men wept, knowing the days of tyranny were passed, 
and that the dawn would break upon a free and happier 
Scotland. "Hail, King Malcolm I" 

Swords leapt from scabbards, shields were flung aloft. 
High on their shoulders they bore their uncrowned 
monarch, whom already they crowned with their love. 

"Hail!" 

The exile was over indeed — patience rewarded — the 
goal in honor reached. 

"Hail, King of Scotland!"" 

And Malcolm Canmore smiled through his tears. 

sfc * * . * * * * 

How hushed was all around. 

In the neighboring greenwood the birds had sung 
their vespers. Night was near. 

An old priest stood on the threshold of the woodland 
chapel and watched. 

Nor did he watch in vain. The dying daylight had 
not wholly faded from the land when a man came striding 
up the long glade. He came alone, and the priest went 
to meet him. 

Malcolm Canmore looked into the mild eyes, his own 
bright with eagerness. The acclaims of his people still 
rang in his triumphant ears. Here, in Birnam wood, 
a great hush of eventide had fallen. Though only green 
canopy of leaves was above their heads, it seemed as 
though they stood in the dim aisles of some lofty church 
and knew God's presence near. So Malcolm's tones 
were hushed as he put his question. 

"Is she safely here?" 



368 MACBETH 

The old man pointed towards the chapel. Was it 
pity that shone in his kindly eyes? 

"I am her messenger," he replied. 

The young king looked surprised. 

"Night draweth on apace/' he said. "My horse is 
tethered yonder. I came to bring her to the castle.' ' 

"Where her mother died/' added the priest. "Nay, 
sire, yon poor maid will never more return to Dunsinane, 
but rather seek at once some convent shade, where she 
shall yet perform her part for Scotland by prayer." 

Malcolm frowned. 

"You talk in riddles, father," he replied. "Years 
agone that sweet maid and I plighted our troth. She 
hath served Scotland nobly; much of my present victory 
and the freedom of our land is owed to her. I come to 
claim her as my bride — what could I less?" 

"You speak fairly, son," said the priest, shaking his 
head. "Yet even I can read between the words of that 
same speech. You owe this maid much, and so, being, 
as I believe by your presence here, the king, you feel 
that you must needs be royal in the guerdon you bestow. 
So would you give yourself — your hand, your throne to 
this sweet maid, holding your heart for Scotland. Thus 
men look on life and duty — but women otherwise. To 
them there is but one transcendent need and craving, 
Love." 

"That would I bestow," quoth Malcolm hotly. "In- 
deed, this maid is very dear to me." 

Yet, as he spoke he remembered again that faint 
thrill of disappointment at having found Bethoc so 
changed from the vision of his dreams. 

"A woman's eyes look deep," said the priest. "I 
am the maid's messenger. She could not tell the tale 



MALCOLM CANMORE 369 

herself, nor read the pain grow in your eyes as she showed 
you how love, being no strong and lusty passion, but 
rather its paler sister gratitude, would wither at its roots 
when you had time to think of how she was the queen's 
daughter and how ill a part that queen had played in 
your life. Aye, from what the daughter, weeping, told 
me, that part was yet more ill than you had deemed. 
Therefore it is that she, this maid who loves you, sees 
here the parting of the ways. You, King of Scotland, 
ride no doubt to Scone to receive the allegiance and, as 
I believe, the love of all your people, whilst she becomes 
the bride of Heaven, henceforth devoting all she has of 
life to prayer and intercession for those who, sinning 
through self-love, have died, and also and most chiefly 
for you, her king, the man she loves too well to claim 
as aught but one who, as she says, touched her Hie to 
glorify it, and leaves it the sweeter for that brief knowl- 
edge and eternal love." 

Malcolm bowed his head. 

Here was the fiat, decreed by Heaven, though a 
woman's love and sacrifice had spoken it. 

And it was true. 

Duty, sweet memories, gratitude, had brought him to 
claim the maid he thought to love in youth's early 
glamour. But love had never stirred the deeper depths 
of his manhood — and the woman, watching him with 
wise eyes had known it — perhaps she was glad too, 
since it made the sacrifice, so inevitable, easier. 

"Shall I see her?" he asked, seeking the priest's face 
with dim eyes. 

The old man pointed to where on the chapel steps 
Bethoc was standing. 

The long hours of prayer spent by yonder altar had 

24 



370 MACBETH 

strengthened and exalted the woman who had fought 
no less sore a battle than that waged upon the distant 
plain. 

And Malcolm, seeing her standing there in the dim 
twilight, wondered that he could have thought her beauty 
fled. 

Yet the beauty did not stir his heart with passion 
but rather awed it with reverence, so that he looked 
at her as though already she were one of God's fair 
saints. 

Her dark hair lay about her shoulders uncovered, her 
face was pale, her beautiful lips parted in a sad, sweet 
smile, but her eyes, blue as the waters of some fathom- 
less loch, were clear and steadfast, fixed in a gaze which 
saw beyond this world to the very shores of eternity. 

Slowly Malcolm approached and took her hand, 
raising it to his lips. 

"Bethoc — farewell," he breathed, "farewell, truest 
and most noble maid. Never shall I forget all that I 
owe thee — all the debt Scotland can never pay. Pray 
for me, sweet, so shall I be worthier to meet Heaven's 
dear saint one day in paradise." 

She looked at him — one last, long look, such as we 
cast upon the dead who hold our heart. What was this 
farewell? 

Perhaps she saw it as a very little thing. A swift 
passage of fleeting years which drifted on towards the 
changeless aeons of eternity. And seeing it thus, she 
smiled for all the weary aching of her woman's heart. 

"Farewell, my king," she answered very clearly. 
And then — when he had gone, passing still with slow, 
measured tread back down the glade towards the out- 
skirts of the wood — "farewell, dear love — farewell," 
she whispered in a lower key. 



MALCOLM CANMORE 371 

So passed King Malcolm out of the sight and life of 
Bethoc, Queen Gruoch's daughter, to return to his 
welcoming people, thence to Scone to be crowned the 
King of Scotland. 

But Bethoc knelt before the altar of a woodland 
chapel through the dark hours of night. 

The dawn found her there still — but she was smiling 
when the first rays of sunlight touched the great crucifix 
on which was imaged the bowed figure of the world's 
Saviour. 






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